


There's No Such Thing In The World (As An Undo Button)

by zulu



Series: No Such Thing [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: 08-03, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, M/M, Mpreg, for:zulu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-08
Updated: 2008-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:09:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 42,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A one night stand leads to something not intended by nature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You know how a lot of people say they write mostly for themselves? I think this is that fic where I write pretty much entirely for myself. Please don't expect such a thing as "plausibility" here. As a result, mainly unbetaed.

**There's No Such Thing (As An Undo Button)**

Foreman knows he's looking good when the bouncer waves him past the line and into his favourite club without a second thought.

The place is thumping with bass, and the dancefloor is mobbed. The lights dance and spin, shadowing and then highlighting the crowds yelling above the music and bouncing along to the beat. Foreman grins. It's Friday night, the place is packed, and he's looking hot; there's no way this is going to end badly. He catches three guys checking him out before he's even moved past the coat check, ditching his leather jacket to show off the mauve silk shirt open a few buttons down his chest, and the tight black pants he's wearing. Hell, he might get lucky before he even leaves the premises.

Nobody catches his eye on his first casual tour around the dancefloor, though, so he heads to the bar to grab a beer. The crowd is even thicker around the bar, and Foreman finally manages to work his way closer, edging up next to a taller man who looks too old for this place. He's leaning on a cane, for God's sake. He's also shooting a laser death glare at the bartender, who seems to be pointedly serving everybody at the far end of the bar.

"Hey, cripple down here!" the guy shouts. "I can't stand around _all_ day talking about how moronic anyone has to be to get stuck working in the service industry!"

No wonder it was easiest for Foreman to squeeze in at this end; he's stuck in the invisibility field being exuded by some jackass. Foreman groans inwardly and wonders if it's worth it to shove his way back out and then move in at the other end, where at least money and drinks are changing hands. Just then, there's a push from the crowd behind him, and he's knocked forward into the guy who's ruining the service for everybody else.

"Watch it," the guy snaps, twisting enough to look him up and down dismissively. "Not too steady on my feet. We're not all Chippendale dancers here."

Foreman snorts. That's half-way a compliment, dripping with sarcasm though it might be. "Maybe if you stopped yelling at him," he mutters.

The guy seems to have preternatural hearing, because he scoffs, "Oh, right, _that_ will get his attention, me waiting calmly and politely."

Foreman stares at him neutrally. "Well, the shock might make him come over to investigate."

"Hilarious," he says. "Go stand on your own side of the bar. I was getting ignored just fine on my own."

"Maybe he's had the pleasure of serving you before," Foreman says.

The guy actually grins at him brightly. "Ooh, catty," he says. "In fact, he has. Didn't like the tip I gave him."

"Let me guess: something to do with his hygiene."

"To lose the Seagulls haircut, actually. They were a disaster even when they were in."

Foreman looks at the bartender again, with his feathered blond surfer look, and he can't quite hold back the edge of a grin. He does look ridiculous, and the snotty way he's clearly ignoring them both is at once infuriating and laughable. "You're not going to get anywhere by telling him what he doesn't want to hear," he says.

He gets a longer look-over this time, and the guy smirks like he's got Foreman figured out right from the first second. "That shirt is incredibly gay," he says.

"And we're in a gay bar," Foreman says.

"So we are. Do you blend in this well with all the stereotypes?" With a leer, the guy looks pointedly at Foreman's crotch.

Foreman rolls his eyes and tries to flag the bartender down himself. "Fuck off."

"I'm guessing that's what you're here to do, Lothario." The leer turns into a full-on ogle by degrees, and Foreman can tell the guy thinks he's pushing every one of Foreman's buttons just by looking.

Foreman squares his shoulders and tries waving down the bartender again. He can ignore this guy. He's been hit on plenty of times by men who just aren't up to his standards.

The guy shakes his head and leans his elbows on the bar, hooking his cane over one wrist. He seems to be perfectly happy getting no service, now that he has Foreman as well as the bartender to annoy. "Forget it. He's not coming over here."

"Look, there's an easy way to solve this," Foreman says. He leans across the bar, and just as he suspected, there's an entire row of beer bottles just sitting there. With a quick reach, he grabs two, enough to tide him over until he's willing to slog back through the crowd to the bar again. He pulls out his wallet, counts out enough cash to cover the price--no tip--and drops it on the counter.

"Thanks," the guy says, yanking both beers out of Foreman's hands.

"Hey!" Foreman says. "Those are _my_ beers."

The guy smirks at him. "_Obviously_ you wanted to impress me by buying--excuse me, _acquiring_ me a drink," he says. "I'm in awe of your petty theft abilities. Really." He bats his eyelashes ridiculously, as if he could ever in a million years pull off the innocent ingenue look. "You're amazing. Call me sometime."

With that, he turns around and starts bulldozing his way through the crowd that's accumulated around the bar. Foreman tries to go after him, but the guy's entirely willing to knock people aside with his elbows and stomp on their toes with his cane, and Foreman gets squeezed back, apologizing, into an angry mob that's being denied access to alcohol by the asswipe of a bartender. It's not a pretty situation.

By the time Foreman escapes the crush, he realizes he has no beer, no way of tracking the guy down, and no way of proving they're his beers in the first place. "Fuck," he says, letting his head drop back. Suddenly the bar just seems loud and pointless, and the interested looks coming his way seem insipid at best.

He is _not_ going to let a random encounter ruin his evening, though, so he moves to the railing around the dancefloor and starts scoping out the men moving past. Five minutes later, he sees a guy heading past who looks halfway interesting--he certainly stands out. He's in a dress shirt and a _tie_, and he looks supremely out of place, though not uncomfortable with being surrounded by guys who are grinding into each other's asses. He's got light brown hair and a sort of distant, resigned expression, and Foreman's curious enough to follow him to his table, thinking he might be good for a conversation at least.

Except when he reaches his table and sits down, the guy next to him is the jackass from the bar. Foreman stops short, but fuck it, he wants compensation for those beers, and he strides determinedly forward.

The guy from the bar is sipping at his--_Foreman's_\--beer, leaning on the tiny, too-high table to take the weight off his leg. He's not bad-looking, wearing a blue button-down open at the throat, and some well-worn jeans that are old enough to conform pretty much exactly to his long legs. He's not as old as Foreman first thought, because of the cane and the stubble, and though he's clearly well over forty he looks good for it. He's staring meditatively into the distance, his eyes a pale electric blue in the bright lights, but his gaze sharpens when he catches sight of Foreman.

"Hey, Wilson!" he says, grinning in a way that reads as _way too interested_. Foreman shakes his head at the assumption that he might be that easy. "It's the guy who bought us beers."

The second man looks over warily. He smiles diffidently, as if that might soothe Foreman's anger and make him go away. "Sorry about that," he says. "House thought you were hitting on him." He slides his beer, still unopened, across the table towards Foreman.

Foreman takes it, thinking that he'll escape again with at least one drink for his trouble, but House snatches it out of Foreman's hands for the second time in under twenty minutes. He twists off the cap and takes a long swallow, letting out a pointedly satisfied belch and knocking the bottle down on the table. Wilson sighs and gives Foreman an apologetic look. Foreman wonders why the hell he puts up with this guy, except, of course, _he's_ still here--so he could ask himself the same question. But there's something about House's arrogance and complete self-assurance, no matter what kind of chaos he's creating, that Foreman can't help liking.

House grins again--he looks drunk, but Foreman has a feeling that's about as sincere as most of his other looks--and takes another drink out of his own bottle. "Sorry," he says. "We're celebrating. Didn't get fired again today!"

"_You're_ celebrating," Wilson says. "_I'm_ being dragged out against my will."

"Pssh," House says. "You'd be gay too if you just _tried_ it." He leans in further, and says to Foreman, "He's _married_. He has two kids and a dog. The only thing I've managed to put my foot down about is the fucking white picket fence."

"House--"

"He's completely whipped. I've got fifty bucks on him abandoning me tonight for the little missus."

"House, she's your _sister_."

"And she has you by the balls. I can respect that."

At that moment, Wilson's cell rings, and he closes his eyes in a long-suffering fashion while House just leans back with a vindicated expression on his face. Wilson smooths a hand over the back of his neck and answers the phone. "Hi, honey."

"_Honey_," House mouths to Foreman. Foreman can't help letting out an amused breath. House raises his eyebrows and pushes the beer back across the table at him, a challenging light in his eyes.

Foreman's pretty sure he knows what that look means, but he takes the beer anyway and sips it. It's cold, but the lip of the bottle is just the slightest bit warm and damp from House's lips. That's not exactly a thought that turns him off, which is kind of surprising, and he lets House know it with a glance. House ramps up the smugness, and Foreman chuckles silently. Yeah, it could be interesting. He wonders if House would be that insolent in bed; pushy and demanding, and never once letting up on the insults until he was forced to shut up...in one way or another.

Wilson's still on the phone, plugging one ear with his hand and hunching forward to hear better, saying, "Well, how do you _know_ it's chicken pox? Yes, honey, I know you're a doctor, but you're an endocrinologist...no, honey, I didn't mean you wouldn't know chicken pox when you saw it..."

House rolls his eyes at Foreman. "Three, two, one..."

"Yes, of course," Wilson says. "I'll get some baking soda on my way." He shuts the phone, pockets it, and takes a drink of House's beer. "Allison has chicken pox."

"And you're going home," House says. "Gimme fifty bucks."

"You _knew_. You knew before we even left!"

"The bet was not whether I saw one of your genetic accidents scratching like a major league pitcher. It was that you'd wimp out and go home."

"My daughter is _sick_."

"I would've told you if the diagnosis was fatal," House says. "What do you take me for?"

"Fine," Wilson mutters. He takes out a fifty and passes it to House. "Don't do anything...that would get the cops called," he says, wincing slightly and glancing at Foreman.

"If you're taking a sick day tomorrow, I want pancakes for breakfast," House says comfortably.

Wilson sighs and shrugs a bit. "Yeah, okay, House," he says, and heads for the door.

Foreman watches him go. The crowd seems to dissolve in front of him and reform behind him, as if his smile is enough to get him through without ever once having to say excuse me. If there's a moment when Foreman can escape House with most of his dignity and his beer intact, this is probably it. Before he can move off with a polite smile, though, House stands up and moves around the table so that his body nudges up against Foreman's. He leans in, close enough that he only has to whisper warmly into Foreman's ear, his stubble brushing his cheek. "I don't dance," he says. "You wanna get the cops called on Wilson instead?"

Foreman laughs out loud. It's probably the worst come on he's heard in years, from the most entitled bastard he's met, but, on the other hand, he'll get what he wants out of this evening, without ever having to look back. "Sure," he says, "whatever," but he's pretty damn sure he'll be the one calling the shots.


	2. Chapter 2

When they stumble out of the club a few hours later and fifty dollars drunker, House grabs his new toy and propels him towards a taxi. Foreman doesn't resist much, and the cabbie's obviously used to picking up fares who grope their way through the ride. House offers a shit-eating grin and his address to the rearview mirror and turns his attention to more important matters.

Foreman's purple monstrosity of a shirt is glossy and warm under his hands, but House thinks he'd like the feel of his skin even better, hot and smooth. Who the hell knew that that much arrogance might actually cover something resembling _talent_? Foreman kisses like he's promising something very dirty and very fun in the very near future, and he has no doubts about being able to deliver. House likes the promises and offers a few of his own: _yes, I am that coordinated, and that's after a dozen shots_, and _I already know more about what you want than you ever will_, and _if you're good I just might give it to you_.

House has to admit he wasn't expecting this. He managed to diagnose his patient today and bring her back from the brink of death. Wilson did his best to soothe away all the angry talk of lawsuits (House suspects that a boyish grin and a not-so-boyish schtup up against Cuddy's desk might have been the deciding factors). At the end of the day he still had his job and no mysteries left. Wilson in a gay bar should have been enough to top the triumph: House can feel the laughter bubbling up just remembering the bouncer's incredulous look when Wilson studiously paid their cover; but actually picking up is _so much better_ than sitting around watching the twinks dance and mocking Wilson until his ears turn red.

He was ready to dismiss the guy at the bar after sharing a mutually contemptuous glare, but the trick with the beer charmed him more than he'd want to admit. A man after his own heart, willing to break rules to get the end result that they'd probably _still_ be waiting on if they'd played along. And he does have very pretty eyes; House made a mental note right around the third round of shooters to mock him for that when the world stopped spinning. But it's the self-satisfied grin on Foreman's face right before he kisses him that drives House crazy. Like this is all part of _Foreman's_ plan, like he's the one in charge. Like all that handsome dark-eyed confidence is all it takes to go out and have his pick of guys; like one kiss, no matter how smugly casual, is insurance of getting laid.

And, yes, just like he thought, getting Foreman's shirt untucked and wrinkled and his hand up underneath it is _very_ satisfying--warm skin and firm muscle; Foreman's chest and abs are perfectly defined, shaking as he curls forward into House's exploratory touch.

Muscles don't do it for House, not always, but the way he can imagine Foreman making love to himself in the wall-to-wall mirrors of some upscale yuppie gym, all that conceited pleasure in his own body, as if weight-lifting is a _sport_\--there's something about that picture that makes House want to kiss Foreman until he comes undone. House licks the side of his neck--Foreman tastes sharply of cologne at first and then it's just salt and stale alcohol and yeah, even that can be a turn-on. House sucks just above his carotid artery, just behind his ear, just under his jaw, while Foreman pants and laughs breathlessly like he _expected_ this, goddamn him. House is going to have him mindless and out of control and throwing his head back to _beg_ before this is done.

House knows if it doesn't involve crosschecking or ending up with a mouthful of turf and a mix of grass and bloodstains on his knees, then it doesn't count as exercise. Of course it's been years since House played lacrosse himself, but he hasn't forgotten how it feels to sprint across the field until he was ready to cough up his lungs and collapse and _die_, and how fucking good that felt.

Kissing Foreman feels like that, like scoring the winning goal in the last minute, like throwing himself on the ground and wiping his burning face against the cool wet grass. It's like laughing at the losers so hard he can't stop, and it's not really about him winning and them losing so much as it is this intense physical elation, mixed with the dizzy half-aching exhaustion that he can only simulate with alcohol now..._fuck_, yes, the smell of Foreman's sweat, the rough weight of his body as he tries to pin House to the seat, it's the best kind of drunken making out, where neither of you gives a rat's ass about the other and you're both working to get as much of your own pleasure as you can.

And just when it's starting to go really, really right, of _course_, the taxi jerks to a stop and the cabbie says, "Thirty-five bucks."

House grabs his cane and opens the door, wondering if it'll be as hard getting upright as it was to fold himself into this ridiculous clown-car in the first place. "Pay the man," he says, as blithely as he would if he was riding with Wilson.

"_You_ pay him," Foreman says indignantly. "You're the one who lives in the fucking _suburbs_."

He obviously despises Wilson's picket fence and every last thing associated with it. House likes him all the more. "I bought drinks," he says.

"_I_ bought drinks," Foreman says, trying to bring _facts_ into the argument. It's cute.

"I'd believe you _both_ bought drinks," the cabbie says. "Thirty-five bucks, and I'd better be getting a tip."

"You got the show," House says.

The cabbie glares at him. Foreman rolls his eyes and fumbles for his wallet. "Here," he says, throwing two twenties over the seat.

The cabbie nods curtly. "Enjoy your evening," he says, with enough sarcasm that House offers him a leer and decides not to hate him.

He manages to maneuver himself out of the taxi, and after it squeals its tires getting away from them, the nearest convenient prop is Foreman. House drapes himself over him like he's his own personal leaning post. That feels good, too, letting Foreman's compact strength support him, while his knees try to give way beneath him. House wonders if they could have sex in the yard--it would serve Wilson right for challenging him _not_ to get the cops involved--but his leg is nagging him to get horizontal as soon as possible.

Foreman seems to think he's romancing House, because he cups House's face in his palms and kisses him like he expects an end-of-the-chick-flick orchestra to start swelling. That's really, really not what's swelling right now, though, and House grabs his wrist and moves his hand somewhere much more responsive. House moans a bit; yeah, yeah, the guy is talented, this was _such_ a good idea. Foreman's hand sliding over his crotch is another argument in favour of the get-a-bed plan. Still, making out right where any of Wilson's uptight neighbours might see is its own reward, so he starts flicking Foreman's buttons open with one hand and groping his ass with the other.

Foreman tries to return the favour--House grunts a complaint when Foreman's hand leaves his dick--but he's blundering like a surgical intern on the first day he's allowed to touch a scalpel.

"God, you're incompetent," he says fondly. Foreman's fumbling, the awkward brush of his hands, is hotter than it has any right to be. House starts them shuffling them towards the guesthouse behind Wilson's suburban nightmare, using Foreman more than his cane. "Don't they require manual dexterity for whatever the hell you do?"

"Shut up," Foreman mutters, struggling with buttons and with House's not inconsiderable weight. Also, walking backwards. House tries imagining him as Ginger Rogers and fails spectacularly, and muffles his laugh in Foreman's shoulder, and bites him there for good measure, to feel whether he'll shiver or flinch. "A little bit of _space_ might--"

They've reached the door--which in a stunning bit of foresight House has left unlocked, because he couldn't say where his keys are now--and finally, they're inside. House shakes his head and bats Foreman's hands away. "Idiot," he says, and strips his shirt over his head. "Easy."

"Yeah," Foreman laughs, "You are that."

House kind of loves that he is so wasted right now. He can barely feel his leg complaining, he doesn't care about skinning out of his jeans despite the scar, and his skin is warm and his muscles are loose and he is going to get _laid_. Best celebration ever.

Foreman's shirt is mostly undone already, so House pushes it off his shoulders--"Stupid fucking shirt," he mutters, "purple," and Foreman answers, "Mauve," as if it matters--and then, all this _skin_. Goosebumps lifting on Foreman's chest and arms. His nipples are tight; House pinches them, and finally Foreman makes the sound House was waiting for--a low, half-swallowed gasp that means he's not as unaffected as he'd like to pretend. He grabs House's shoulders and kisses him again, hard and with all the fierceness of his pride, until they're both breathing raggedly.

They stumble to House's bed and he pushes Foreman down first to hide how long it takes him to sit down without falling. Foreman does the gentlemanly thing and takes the opportunity to lose the rest of his clothes, and by the time House rolls on top him and pins him down, they're both naked and hard and _fuck_, it has seriously been too long. House is too drunk too hold off; he pushes his dick into Foreman's hip and kisses him again.

The kiss lasts until he's dizzy with it. The fade of alcohol in his system leaves him strangely tired, until everything slows down, and he can feel each movement as if it lasts forever. Foreman's body is hot and smooth; his palm on the back of House's neck feels like the afternoon sun burning between his helmet and the collar of his motorcycle jacket during a long ride. House runs a hand down his triceps to his armpit to feel the texture of his hair, and to see if he's ticklish. Foreman doesn't flinch. He takes a page from House's book instead, grabs his hand, shoving it down his stomach to his cock.

"Pushy," House says, and Foreman just grins as if to say _you know you like it_.

The problem is, he really does. Foreman's cock fills his hand, and he slips easily into a rhythm to start; then quickens the pace, and slows it, just when Foreman starts to thrust in time. He can easily rub off against Foreman's hip while he's doing this, a warm spiral of enjoyment, something not quite urgent yet. What he's enjoying, really, is the way Foreman's eyes drift closed, the way he smiles, a sloppy, satisfied grin that turns open-mouthed when House twists his grip to make him groan. Foreman spreads his legs and presses his heels into the mattress, pushing up into House's hand, and House smirks. Yeah, he's good; yeah, he's going to make Foreman admit it. He closes his eyes and strokes faster, dipping his head down to Foreman's chest and letting his orgasm build in waves, until he wants more than he's getting.

When he's done all the work he's going to, he lets go and drops back on his side of the bed. The ceiling is turning in slow circles. He stares up at it, blinking slowly.

"Hey," Foreman says, elbowing him sharply. "What's the problem?"

"Your turn," House says, and grins. He's feeling lazy and pleased, and he'd really like Foreman's mouth on his dick right now, slow hot suction, sliding his tongue under the head, pretty eyes bulging a bit when House thrusts. Nice thought, but Foreman growls and gets a hand under his shoulder, and shoves him onto his stomach.

"Fuck you," Foreman says. "Bastard."

"Get on with it then," House says, since he can admit it when other people have valid perspectives on current events. He half-drowses, face down, while Foreman scavenges for lube and condoms--they're somewhere around, if Foreman's too dumb to find them then he doesn't deserve to fuck him--and he hmms to himself and rubs against the bed, the chafe of the sheets against his dick keeping him awake and interested.

A minute later, Foreman's pushing him down, one hand on the center of House's back. He adds his weight behind it, hard, yeah, and his fingers are cold with the lube but they warm quickly and _fuck yes_. Talent. House can spot it. He can also tell it when it's fingerfucking him so fast that suddenly he's as awake as he's ever been, aching for it, breathless and muttering, "Come on, come _on_, let's _go_." But Foreman's fumbling again, with the condom this time.

House groans, restless. "What's the goddamn hold up--"

"Give me a minute--"

Fuck him and his lack of coordination. House doesn't have a fucking minute. He's going to come and then he's going to pass out, he has it very clearly planned. "Just _fuck_ me already," he says, and Foreman says, "_Fine_," and then he pushes in without warning, without waiting, and his cock is fucking _huge_, and it burns right up until it turns into the best feeling ever. House can't breathe. His body wants to flinch away from the pain and buck back into the pleasure both at once. He compromises by panting into the pillow and letting Foreman do all the work. Foreman thrusts twice more and then he's got the angle worked out and the sensation moves from adequate to amazing in under a second.

House twists against the pillows and Foreman's hand on his back, feeling like he's just been pinned to the bed by adrenaline and endorphins. Everything moves higher and sharper, and he's edging closer and closer to orgasm. He _knows_ he can't come just from being fucked but he can't get his coordination right to hold himself up and jerk off at the same time.

"Fuck--" he says, pushing up on one elbow, "would you--" but Foreman laughs in his ear and doesn't move to help. House hates him, hates him, he's going to kill him, he's going to come and pass out and then wake up again just to _kill him_, and then the world stutters to a stop because Foreman's _finally_ got his goddamn hand in gear. His palm is hot and rough and stroking with a long pulling _twist_. Pleasure roars in his ears, spreads outwards from every point at once, and House comes so hard he thinks 'orgasm' and 'passing out' might have combined as the same item on his to-do list.

Foreman keeps on fucking him, even after it's over, even after he's worked House's dick right through until he's started to soften, and House barely notices when Foreman comes, except he groans hoarsely and then falls on House with a grunt.

"Off," House mutters, too tired to fight it much. Foreman's heavy, but not uncomfortable, and a minute later when he rolls off the air is too cold against House's sweaty back.

He doesn't care, though, because passing out has just become priority number one.

He still plans to kill Foreman in the morning.

***

Foreman wakes up to the sound of retching. A moment later, a toilet flushes and the guy from last night--House, he reminds himself--limps into view with a toothbrush stuck in his mouth. He's wearing pyjama pants and he's bare-chested, which just serves to remind Foreman that he's naked and the sheets have slipped far enough that he's showing his ass to the world. House's grin is as good as a wolf-whistle, and Foreman rummages on the floor for his briefs and his pants.

He's managed to restore decency if not dignity when the door bangs open and a woman with curly dark hair storms in with the air of a superhero righting wrongs, kicking ass, and taking names. She gives Foreman an inscrutable glance--it seems to fall somewhere between _very nice_ and _oh God, not again_. "House!" she shouts. "Get out here!"

House wanders into view again, wiping off toothpaste with the back of his hand. "You bellowed?"

"What the hell were you thinking, waking up our neighbours last night at three in the morning?" She looks at Foreman again. "Really?" she adds. "I didn't think...Well."

"He's slumming in suburbia," House says. "And don't try implying I couldn't tap that, Cuddy. I did, and it was hot. I am that good."

"Of course you are, House."

"I could have stolen Wilson from you."

Cuddy pats him on the arm. "I know, you're very virile." She smiles brightly at Foreman. "Well, I'd offer you breakfast, but most of us--" She pauses to stare meaningfully at House, "are already late for work."

Foreman groans--his head is aching fiercely--and reaches for his pants. A floppy-haired kid, maybe six years old, runs in the open door and catches Foreman right before he can get his pants zipped.

House catches the kid with one arm and turns him right around, poking him in the back with his cane for good measure. "Hey, what's the rule?" he says.

"No bothering Uncle House before coffee," the boy recites dutifully. "Who's that?" he demands, pointing at Foreman.

Foreman ignores the question and reaches for his shirt. At least three of the buttons have come off; he's going to look like a mess getting home. House grins at him again--God, he's certainly full of himself--and looks like he wouldn't mind a rematch, and he'd knock his nephew unconscious to rid them of the bother.

"Robert, do you have your school bag?"

"I wanna stay home with Allison!"

"No, you have school," Cuddy says.

"I wanna know what Uncle House was doing with that guy!"

Cuddy covers Robert's eyes with one hand. "Don't ever do what they were doing," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Why not?" Robert asks, grabbing Cuddy around the legs and staring at Foreman wide-eyed from behind her skirt.

"Don't worry, honey," Cuddy says. "We'll rent Angels In America when you're older."

She pushes Robert back out the door, and leaves with one last threatening glare at House. "Work!"

House grimaces at her back. "Let's go," he says, swiping a t-shirt hanging off the back of a chair and pulling it on. "She'll just come back otherwise."

They head out of the guesthouse to the main lawn. Wilson's standing at the door of the house, holding a four-year-old in pigtails in his arms. "Morning, House," he says. If he's smirking at Foreman, he's very carefully hiding it in the little girl's hair.

"Morning, Wilson," House says, suddenly maniacally cheery. He tilts his head at the girl, then looks at Foreman, then stares pointedly at Wilson. Foreman can figure out what he means: staying up all night with a sick kid, or hot one-night stand. Foreman hopes House's head is pounding as much as his; vomiting alone is not punishment enough for him.

Cuddy comes out of the house next, carrying the boy's bookbag in one hand and hustling him along with the other. "Goodbye, Allison," she says, pausing to drop a kiss on her daughter's forehead. "Be good for Daddy."

"Say goodbye to Mommy," Wilson prompts.

Allison just buries her head in his shoulder. "My throat hurts," she says. "I don't like chicken pox."

"Don't worry," House tells Allison seriously. "You really have human herpes virus 3. You probably got it from your brother."

"Mom!" Allison screeches, rearing back in Wilson's arms. "Robert gave me herpes!"

Cuddy tries to freeze House with a look. Even Foreman can feel the sudden chill in the air, but House just looks amiably unaffected. "Thanks a lot, House."

"It's important to dispel those urban medical myths early," House says. "Come on, Wilson. Pancakes wait on no man."

"Pancakes don't wait on clinic hours, either," Cuddy says. "Get to work on time. And you--" she says, turning on Wilson. "Don't you dare enable him."

Wilson looks so sheepish that Foreman's certain the pancakes were a very real possibility until that exact moment. "Yes, dear."

"Are you _kidding_ me?" House says. "She's not the boss of you!"

"Technically, she's the boss of both of us," Wilson says, with a self-effacing shrug.

Cuddy turns to House with a killer grin. "Still drives you crazy, doesn't it? Your little sister is Dean of Medicine--"

"Yes, nyah nyah nyah, I remember how the universe hates me." House sulks for all of two seconds, pouting ferociously, before he turns to Wilson with a wild swing of his cane that nearly connects with his shin. "Man up, Wilson!" he says. "Maple syrup! Buttermilk!"

"You might interrupt me with my patients or destroy my credit history on a whim," Wilson says, patting Allison's back soothingly. "She could deny me sex."

Cuddy smiles sweetly. "That's right, honey."

House looks hurt. "I could deny you sex, too!"

"Thank God for that," Cuddy mutters. "Come on, Robert," she says. She puts a hand to the back of his blond head and urging him towards the minivan.

"I want pancakes with Daddy and Uncle House!" the boy shrieks, his treble reaching pitches only dogs should be able to hear, but somehow managing to pierce Foreman's eardrums like a train whistle. The girl chimes in with a chant of "Herpes! Herpes! Herpes!"

Foreman winces. He's never been so glad that he won't ever have kids. "I've got to get to work," he says, to nobody in particular. House isn't paying attention, and Wilson's got his arms full of a squirming, infectious four-year-old. Foreman shakes his head and starts down the street, hoping to be at least three blocks away before anyone notices.

Of course, House turns around on time to see him doing the walk of shame. "Call me!" he shouts at top volume, with an obnoxious wink and a lascivious wave.

Foreman refuses to duck his head, and stays as dignified as he can until he can get his phone out to call a cab. The only thing he can think as he makes his escape is that he hopes he'll never have to see any of them again.


	3. Chapter 3

**EIGHT WEEKS LATER**

"Oh, man, Doc, so, like, it was this chili cheeseburger eating contest, and I was, like, in second place, right, I was only three burgers behind, and I mean, these things were _massive_, okay? Beef and cheddar and I think some Monterey Jack on some of them. Like a quarter-pounder, but juicy, you know, with onions, and with this chili sauce that would knock your socks off. I mean, my mouth felt like a blowtorch, right, but I wanted that Weekly Steak Dinner For A Year, and I _did_ it, four burgers in ten minutes, but...um...now...things aren't going so hot." Idiot Without Immodium pauses and shifts uncomfortably on the exam bed. "Actually, um, that's the problem," he adds. "At the other end. Things are really going. And they're really hot."

House stares balefully at Chili-Cheese Moron. He thought he knew hell. He thought he understood the pure, unadulterated torture that was clinic duty. He thought there was nothing that could make him hold back his commentary on each and every dimwit to walk through an exam room door.

He was wrong. Fuck, was he wrong.

Nausea clenches at his stomach, and House swallows hard, squeezing a fist against his abdomen and closing his eyes. He is not going to puke. He is _not_ going to puke.

"So, uh, Doc? Is there anything you can do for me?" he says. When House doesn't answer, he continues, "Because, um, my wife won't let me sleep in our bed until it stops. And I mean the monster farts, too."

"Shut...up," House says. The exam room smells like bleach and fake-cherry cleaning solution. Cold sweat prickles on his forehead and his armpits, and...yeah, he's gonna puke. House makes a lunge for the garbage can and lets go, vomit burning his throat and his stomach heaving up every last drop of bile it can. "Shut up," he mutters again, wiping his mouth and leaning his forehead against the blissfully cool metal rim of the trash can.

"Uh, nurse?" the patient calls, opening the exam room door and waving down the nearest person with medical qualifications who isn't currently spasming up two strawberry Pop Tarts and three cups of black coffee.

Nurse Previn arrives, all bustle and efficiency, but when she sees House she crosses her arms and leans in the doorway, smirking. The schadenfreude is so thick in the air that House thinks he's going to be sick again. He curls around the trashcan, clutching it to his middle. The vinegar stink of vomit rises up and House masters his gag reflex only by the sheerest force of will and the undying promise that he _will_ catch Brenda Previn in a compromising situation, and then he will _laugh_.

"I think this guy's sick," Chili-Cheeseburger Guy says, and House groans just remembering that little gem of an anecdote. His abs ache in protest. Chili-Cheeseburger wrinkles his nose and edges away from him. "I want to get treated by someone else," he says. "I hate a sick doctor."

*

After lunch--a meal consisting pretty much entirely of blue-raspberry Jell-O--House paces in his conference room, glaring at his whiteboard every time he passes it. The nausea has faded, as it usually does a few hours after he's woken up and managed to keep some food down. The fact that he knows the pattern means that this has already been going on for far too long.

The conference door opens hesitantly; House grimaces at the whiteboard again. He can detect Wilson in Concerned Friend mode just from the sound of the hydraulic hinges when he comes to badger House about eating right or sleeping wrong or bugging Cuddy at all. As if he didn't know the words 'sibling rivalry' _before_ he proposed, the sap.

Wilson's wearing a suit that's nearly impeccable except for the bright pink stain of non-toxic and apparently non-non-permanent Crayolas right at six-year-old kamikazee artist height. He looks tired--Allison is wasting away from a common cold virus that mutates faster than chicken soup can be applied--and of course Wilson's the one staying up reading picture books and singing lullabies.

"House, are you...all right?" he asks. He tilts his head, his hands in his pockets, and approaches as if House might bite his head off for daring to be worried.

"Fine," House snaps. He doesn't want to get Wilson involved, but at the same time he feels ridiculously happy that Wilson's here. The _I will take care of you and only you_ cancer-patient schtick should _not_ work on him, but it's stupidly comforting anyway.

"Nurse Previn told me you were sick in the clinic this morning." Wilson looks like he wants to get up close and personal in a country-doctor "come here my lad," physical exam sort of way.

House wards him off with a glare. "Nothing's wrong."

"Right," Wilson says, moving across the room to House's side, so that they're standing shoulder to shoulder and considering the offending whiteboard. "Except...hm, nausea, fatigue, sensitivity to aromas, frequent urination, lower back pain, weight gain...did those jeans from college finally stop fitting?"

"I have a patient," House lies loftily.

Wilson's mouth curls into a smile. "Cuddy _wishes_ you had a patient."

"Oh, does she?" House gives his best leer; it suffers, he thinks, because along with all the other symptoms he thinks there's something like a lump of ice in his stomach. "Does she get _needy_ when I ditch work? Ever think I do it all for you?"

"Of course," Wilson says, like it's a revelation. "You're trying to help my sex life; that explains everything. Especially the speech you gave about beating me to death with your cane and knowing a place where no one could possibly find my body if I ever hurt her."

"Every big brother gives that speech."

"Not at the _wedding reception_, House."

"Mom said she'd never heard anything more beautiful."

"And your father nearly had an apoplectic fit."

"Are you still trying to insist there was a down side?"

"House, stop trying to deflect. You're sick." Wilson looks at him with his big brown eyes shimmering with concern, like a ragamuffin street urchin begging for more pottage in some British costume drama. House thinks he feels a touch of the nausea coming back. "What tests have you run?"

House broods over the symptom list. "None yet."

"Any jaundice?" Wilson says. "It could be your liver...the pain might be radiating..."

"My liver's in great shape since the ketamine," House says. "I'm not even taking aspirin."

"So we'll draw some blood," Wilson says. He's got the worst poker face in the world; House feels like a terminal patient just standing in Wilson's carefully hearty aura. "We'll figure this out."

House sneers at him. "I already have."

"You already...know?"

House sighs and uncaps the whiteboard marker. The smell of the ink is sickening. He stares at the list for another long moment, and then he adds "early morning" in front of "nausea".

He looks at Wilson. Wilson looks at him.

"Oh, God," Wilson says.

*

"This is humiliating," House says, leaning his elbow against the tile and his forehead on his wrist. He makes a list of everyone he's never going to be able to look in the eye again, heads it with Cuddy (how was he to know when she popped out not one but two of Wilson's adorable-moppet spawn that his jokes were going to come back and haunt him?) and trails it all the way down to his dad (the only possible benefit might be shocking the old man into a heart attack.)

Wilson shakes his head from where he's peeing at the next urinal. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards a fraction of an inch, and from Wilson that's as good as ten minutes of mockery and derisive laughter. "Hey, man, you're the one who dragged your conquest home. Into my _yard_. Mrs. Winkirk still won't speak to me at the Homeowners' Association meetings."

"He was hot," House protests weakly, annoyed that he can't find a better argument. He caps the urine sample one-handed and then leans back on his left leg to shake off and zip up. Unhooking his cane from the plumbing, he joins Wilson at the sinks to wash his hands.

"And obviously very careful," Wilson says, staring at him meaningfully in the mirror. "You're lucky you didn't end up with something worse."

House scours hard enough with the cheapo dispenser soap as if he's scrubbing in for surgery, glaring at his hands. "How could anything be _worse_?"

"Oh, a wasting autoimmune disorder, for starters," Wilson says, at his driest.

"Yeah, at least then I'd be _dead_, and not responsible for putting a kid through college."

Wilson turns sideways and crosses his arms, the better to stare at House even more meaningfully. "Are you thinking about it?"

"About what?" House snaps. Wilson's stare is more withering than usual, probably because for once he has a point.

"About putting this kid through college."

House rolls his eyes and shoves the specimen container at him, half-hoping the cap will come off and add to the I Am A Loving Parent collection of stains on Wilson's shirt. "How many times do I have to tell you I am _not_ setting up a mutual fund?" he says. "Tests first."

*

"Positive," Wilson says.

House snatches the results out of his hands and looks at them himself. There it is, in black and white and progesterone. "Are you sure the centrifuge is properly calibrated?"

Wilson stares at him, a look that's halfway disbelief and more than a little badly-hidden pity. "I didn't use the centrifuge."

"Well," House mutters. "You never know."

There's a moment, then, when they both sit back in unison, House in his desk chair and Wilson in the visitor's chair across from him. House thinks about beaning Wilson with his tennis ball, because he _knows_ what Wilson's thinking. Baby booties and onesies come into it somehow, he's certain. A cousin for Robert and Allison to play with! How adorable!

House scowls at him. He knows just how Wilson reacts to babies. For days after Cuddy shoved out each of the little squallers, he walked around with a wide, dazed grin on his face. He hugged complete strangers. Hell, he tried to hug _House_. House can't imagine that adding to the world's population is half as joyful as Wilson likes to pretend. But give him a bottle a formula and a tiny human to soothe, and he's in heaven. House snorted and said, "Kids never stop needing you, do they, Wilson?" but Wilson just shook his head--still smiling--and said, with perfect, unimpeachable confidence, "You don't understand."

House doesn't. And he doesn't want to.

Still, guessing Wilson's every thought is easier than trying to figure out his own. He puts his hand against his stomach--there is a ball of cells in there about half an inch long. Attached to his abdominal wall. Like a fucking parasite.

When he looks up, Wilson's watching him. House glares at him.

"How did this even happen?" Wilson says, carefully looking up at the ceiling as if he didn't catch House at anything.

House clenches his jaw. "Well, Jimmy, when two gay men fuck each other very, very much--"

Wilson rolls his eyes.

There's nothing else to say, except the obvious, but House lets the silence stretch again. The sun is shining in through the blinds cheerfully. House resents it. In fact, he resents the hell out of the whole world. There is no way he is doing this, and Wilson had better not fucking argue.

"I want an abortion," he says quietly.

Wilson hesitates, then nods, before looking over doubtfully. "Well, but...how?" he says. "It's not like I can perform a D&amp;C, House; it would involve general surgery."

"Ultrasound and laparotomy," House says promptly. "Easier than a biopsy."

"You'd still need an anesthetic," Wilson says. "I can't do that by myself."

"You are _not_ calling in an anesthetist!"

Wilson sighs. House hates most of his sighs, but especially this one, the annoyed half-breath that means House is making Wilson's life difficult for the express purpose of making Wilson's life difficult. Since it's completely unjustified this time, House hates it all the more. "Maybe you should think about this."

House frowns out the window.

"Maybe you should...call the guy," Wilson says, trying again. He's nothing if not persistent. "Do you even have his number?" He stops and scrubs a hand over his face. "Forget that. Do you even remember his name?"

House opens the credenza behind his desk and pulls out a file, tossing it in front of Wilson. "Eric Foreman," he says. "Business, home, and cell."

"You have his medical history," Wilson says, in the utterly bland way he has of judging House and yet being completely unsurprised. He opens the file, eyebrows lifting as he pages through it.

"I'm not an idiot," House says. "I wanted to know if he was clean."

"But you didn't think about--"

"No!"

"Okay," Wilson says. "Where did you get it, anyway?"

"Stole his business card from his wallet," House says. "He works at Princeton General. Told them he was being considered for a job here."

Wilson sets the file down on House's desk and pins him with a _look_. House already knows that he's not going to like what Wilson has to say, so he rolls his eyes and snaps, "What?" preemptively.

"You...have his number," Wilson says. "You cared enough to get his file." He pauses carefully. House refuses to meet his eyes. Wilson looks away, too, massaging the back of his neck briefly. "You were already thinking about calling him."

"No I wasn't," House says, automatically, fiddling with his cane.

"Uh-huh," Wilson says. "I'll do what you want, House. But talk to him first."

"You can't make me," House says, but Wilson's a manipulative bastard, and he always seems to get his way in the end.

He already knows the main reason he's going to phone Foreman, and probably Wilson knows it too. Because, no matter what else happens, there's really going to be nothing as priceless as the look on Foreman's face when House hunts him down and gives him the news.

House grins to himself and reaches for the phone.


	4. Chapter 4

It's Friday, and Foreman's alternating between dictating and charting, hoping he'll have his plate clear for the weekend. He's not on call for the first time in months, and he's planning to take advantage of the situation. Thoroughly. He glances at the clock, then back at the stack of charts, and sighs. An hour more, then he'll grab some dinner before heading out.

When the phone rings, he answers automatically, gritting his teeth in case it's something that will hold him up at the hospital. "Dr. Foreman."

"You're taking me to dinner."

Foreman juggles the phone awkwardly in his right hand, trying to finish his charting at the same time. "Who _is_ this?"

"Some place nice, but I'm not wearing a tie. And there'd better be steak on the menu. I need the iron."

Foreman frowns and puts down his pen. He has a feeling he's heard the voice before--or at least, the warm thread of amused ego is familiar--but he's in the middle of at least three other tasks more important than tonight's dinner plans, and it's not coming back to him. "No," he says, very definitely, and hangs up.

He starts reviewing the last of his patients, a woman who'd like to go home for the weekend as much as he would. The phone rings again. Foreman glares at it; there's something about the timing that suggests the guy at the other end waited just long enough for him to get absorbed in his work again. In case it's not, he picks up instead of letting it go to his voice mail.

"You'd better get a reservation. I'm not going to stand around waiting for a table."

"Listen," Foreman says, starting to get pissed off. "I don't know who you are and I'm not going to--"

"And don't wear the purple shirt. We have to leave _something_ to the imagination."

This time, it's the guy on the other end who hangs up.

Foreman stares at the phone. The jackass from the bar. There's no way he gave that bastard his number. Especially not his _work_ number. Foreman frowns and dials the switchboard. When the operator answers, he says, "My call was just cut off. Can you tell me who was phoning?"

A pause, and then a mechanical reply, "Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Department of Diagnostics. Office of Dr. Gregory House."

_House_. That was his name. Foreman thinks briefly about punching something, and settles for pushing back from the table and clenching a fist. "Can you get him back for me?"

"One moment, please."

There is no fucking way that Foreman's going to let House have the last word.

***

The restaurant _is_ nice, but it doesn't even compare to the upscale places Foreman brings his dates when he's actually trying to impress them. It's more pub than restaurant, and its biggest feature is that the menu is mostly cheap, mediocre steak. Foreman didn't think long before picking it, because he knows two things about House just from what he remembers about that night: one, he would laugh in Foreman's face if they ate somewhere _fancy_, and two, he is going to try and stick Foreman with the tab.

Even after agreeing to the meal, Foreman almost didn't show. He doesn't need the complication, and it would probably do House some good to get stood up. But the fact is, he's curious. House isn't the type to call back _ever_, let alone two months later. And from the moment when House walks in--late, of course--Foreman can tell there's a reason behind his out-of-the-blue invitation. He doesn't meet Foreman's eyes at first. He's too busy telling off the waiter for working in a place that dares to have steps, and then he's yanking out a chair and maneuvering into it, all without quite looking Foreman in the face.

After he's settled, House glances to the side, across the pub, with a peevish look on his face. When he finally turns to Foreman, his expression is thoughtful, as though Foreman is a puzzle he's considering poking at. He hasn't changed at all; he's still unshaven and wearing a scruffy Oxford shirt unbuttoned enough to show the t-shirt underneath, and a sports jacket so old that the fabric is shiny at the elbows. The pensive look, and his stillness, gives Foreman time to notice other things: the dry, chapped skin of his lips, that were strangely soft against Foreman's; the pensive blue of his irises, the way his pupils dilate slowly in the dim light until his eyes seem darker than they really are; the hint of the dimple Foreman remembers from when House flashed a grin at him.

Once he starts, that's not all he remembers. Things start coming back, that he hasn't really thought about since he got home that morning. He chugged a carton of orange juice, and then spent a bleary day forgetting.

But the details are coming back. The way House kisses, the change from demanding, almost angry, to something tentative, uncertain, as if he was letting go of whatever role he was playing. The determined, skillful play of his fingers on Foreman's cock. How all the muscles in House's back clenched at once under his hand when Foreman drove into his ass the first time--

Foreman's the one who looks away first. He takes a swallow of his beer. When he looks back, House is grinning faintly. Knowingly.

Foreman could really learn to hate him. "Why the hell am I here, House?" he asks.

"You gave me a parasite," House says. "Just thought you should know."

Foreman stops himself from blurting out the obvious question--_is it treatable?_\--because House is still grinning and trying to hide it. "You're fucking with me," he says, anger steadying his voice. "I didn't give you anything; my tests are clean--"

"Idiot," House says, in that tone of his that makes it practically an endearment. "I'm growing your demon spawn. And suing you for paternity support."

This time, House looks not just serious but pissed off, too, in a way that's completely real. Foreman's heart slams once and then stops altogether; he's pretty sure he can feel his blood crashing to a halt in his veins like a ten-car pileup on the turnpike during rush hour. "_What_?"

There's a sudden blinding flash that leaves him not only bewildered and panicked, but blinking to get the afterimage out of his eyes as well. House has just taken his picture with a Polaroid camera. He's shaking the picture out as it develops, a gleefully manic look on his face. "Okay, take two, and with more passion this time," he says, holding up the camera again. "I'm having a kid. You're the father."

Foreman stares at him, not breathing--House clicks the shutter and the flash explodes in his face again--and then Foreman grabs the first picture off the table. Emerging from the white background is his own face, his mouth hanging open in an incredulous gape, his eyes bulging, the whites standing out against his shock-wide pupils. Foreman pushes back from the table and stumbles to his feet, his beer slopping over the edge of the glass as he shoves away--he has to get _away_, because this is _not_ happening. "What the hell are you telling me?"

House holds up the second Polaroid and coos, "I'm putting this in the baby book!"

"You're _keeping_ it? You're seriously--"

"Well, the composition isn't the best, but I really think it captures the moment," House says. "One look at this and the kid won't have any trouble deciding which daddy gets to pay for his therapy."

"The _baby_, you bastard. You're keeping the baby?"

House leans back in his chair and stares up at Foreman evenly. With a shrug, he seems to indicate the rest of the pub, and Foreman realizes just how loud he was. His face burns. "You fucker," he says, more quietly, but with all the venom he can muster. "You--" He can't think of anything bad enough to say that won't get him thrown out of the restaurant, and he shakes his head. He can't take the words in. House has got to be playing the world's worst practical joke on him. He can't believe he's the one making a scene in public, but this can't be real.

Except House hasn't answered the question about whether he's going to go through with it. As if he doesn't know himself. And that's the scariest part of all. If House hasn't thought about it--hasn't decided--then this really might be happening. To him.

He sits down again slowly. His heart's beating like crazy. It feels like every single other person in the restaurant is staring at him, their eyes like a huge, humiliating weight on his back. If a hole opened up in the floor right now, he'd happily jump into it. "How the fuck could this happen?" he asks. "Aren't you too old?"

House glares. Foreman might be freaking out, but he doesn't miss the opportunity to laugh in House's face at the obvious way Foreman has wounded his manly pride.

"I'm forty-seven," House says stiffly. "And my _ass_ hasn't gone through menopause." He leans forward and scowls. "What I'd like to know is what the hell you were doing. You were wearing a condom."

Foreman laughs again. Oh, revenge; finally, he has the upper hand. "No, I wasn't."

House's eyes narrow, his fingers tightening on the edge of the table. "What?"

Foreman wants to shake him, make him admit that he's lying, force him to take it back; but House is starting to look like what he's been saying is starting to sink in for _him_, too.

"You told me not to," he says, grinning--or at least baring his teeth. It's not funny in the least, but it's worth it to see House taken off-guard.

House's eyes flick to the side for a second, and then he glares back. He's getting pissed off in a stubborn, defiant way that doesn't do anything to hide the fact that he's probably terrified. "Why the hell would I tell you _not_ to?" he asks.

"I almost had it on, but I think your exact words were," Foreman stops and drops his voice a bit, half imitating House's gravelly voice. The way he'd _wanted_ it; Foreman hasn't forgotten _that_. "'Just fuck me already'."

House's jaw drops for a second, his breath catching almost inaudibly, and then he throws his head back and yells, "You _moron_. How could you _possibly_ think that's what I meant? Are you this abysmally stupid about all your anonymous gay sex? Or does the fact that we exchanged names qualify as your equivalent of monogamy?"

"You could have stopped me," Foreman says, and he doesn't care that he's getting loud again. He is never coming back to this restaurant. "You could have said no--"

"I was a little _busy_ right then," House snarls.

Foreman stops and lets out half a breath, almost a chuckle. House's cheeks have reddened and he's hunched on his elbows, staring at the table. Foreman forces his shoulders relax and smiles a bit. God, this is ridiculous. And yeah, he can admit he was a little preoccupied himself. That entire, fever-bright moment, when he couldn't move fast enough, couldn't get enough oxygen, couldn't feel anything except the hot clench of House's muscles around him, the slide of the lube, the electric feeling of rightness, of _yes, oh, fuck_...

"Fine," he says. "I want to see the test results."

House flicks a glance at him. "Why?" he asks suspiciously.

"Because there's no way in hell I'm taking this on faith," Foreman says. "Who'd you have do them, anyway?"

"Wilson," House says sullenly. "I don't need you to hold my hand."

Foreman has a feeling that translates to something a lot like thank you, but he's not going to say anything. This doesn't mean he's going to accept this. It sure as hell doesn't mean he's going to play at being a father to House's kid. But he can't argue that he's involved, and maybe that means something. "Shut up, House," he says. "You called me."

For now, that's enough.


	5. Chapter 5

Hospitals are pretty much the same everywhere, and Foreman doesn't have much trouble following House towards the visitor's parking lot outside the free clinic at Princeton Plainsboro, even though House zips ahead on his motorcycle and pulls in to a handicapped spot right outside the doors. It's late enough that there aren't many patients, and too early for the rush of weekend injuries. Foreman parks quickly and catches up with House at the doors, but he's not quite ready to admit they're here together. He hangs back, and House doesn't call him on it--he just lets the doors fall shut in Foreman's face, under the pretense of ignoring him.

Once he's inside, Foreman takes a deep breath and clenches his jaw. He forces himself to continue across the clinic. He doesn't want to be here, and he definitely doesn't want to be memorable.

Try telling that to House, though. He gimps across the clinic at top speed, and yells loud enough that everyone turns to look--well, Foreman notices that the waiting patients in chairs turn to look; the nurses continue about their business as if they're too used to House to even get fed up with him. "Hey, Wilson! Check out how stupid Foreman looks!"

Foreman scowls, but of course no one notices him. They don't know him from Adam. It's the pictures House is talking about--he's standing at the nurse's station, passing the Polaroids to Wilson and snickering. Foreman hasn't been able to get hold of them to tear them up, but he is going to find and destroy them at some point. They look like the pictures that snap on amusement park rollercoasters during the first big drop, except he looks pissed off, too, as if someone insulted his mother right before the floor fell out from under him.

Wilson--Foreman vaguely remembers him by his boy-hero good looks and the soft fall of sandy-brown hair across his forehead--laughs quickly at the pictures, with a flash of a grin. "Seriously?" he asks. "You took my camera."

"Yep." Satisfied, House takes the pictures back with a proprietary flourish and tucks them inside his motorcycle jacket, before leaning back against the counter and smirking at Foreman.

"Well, how did he..." When Wilson realizes House isn't paying attention, he turns around and sees Foreman coming. His smile vanishes, replaced by an embarrassed flush. "You brought him _here_?" he asks.

"Of course!" House says. "Come on." Grabbing Wilson by his lab coat, House propels him into the nearest exam room. At the doorway, he turns and winks exaggeratedly at Foreman, and this time at least one of the nurses looks up on time to catch it. She gives Foreman a pointed, speculative look.

Just like that, Foreman's not anonymous here anymore. Right now, he's certain no one but House and Wilson know why he's there, because House isn't exactly the sharing type; but the instant the gossip gets out, he knows he's going to be at the center of it.

Foreman has a fantasy in which he gets to do some serious physical damage to House, possibly with his own cane. For now, he puts his head down and heads for the exam room, hands jammed in his pockets to prevent him from a really satisfying uppercut. He's the one who wanted to know the fucking test results.

He shuts the exam room door sharply behind him. House is sitting on the doctor's stool, and in another of his lightning mood changes, he looks angry again, staring at his cane, or his feet, or the floor. Wilson is fiddling with the ultrasound machine, checking the wand and finding a tube of conductive gel.

Foreman crosses his arms and glares at the entire tableau. "You're doing this without a chart?" he asks. It's not like he really wants a _record_ of this, but he also doesn't want the fact that they're not following standard procedures to come back and bite them.

"No one'll notice," House says. "I waste hospital resources all the time." He grabs two suckers from the jar on the counter next to him, as if to prove the point, tucking one into the breast pocket of his blazer and ripping the cellophane off the other. He sticks it in his mouth and says around it, lisping slightly, "We'll blame Wilson, that always works."

"Standing right here," Wilson offers, although he looks resigned to being blamed. "Take off your shirt and get up here."

House tips his head at Foreman, and says to him confidentially, "You see? This is the sort of come-on I have to resist all the time, and all for the sake of my darling sister."

Wilson sighs. "Since I don't think you're going to voluntarily put on the patient gown, and I've forgotten my cattle prod today," he tries again, "take off your shirt. And unzip your pants."

"Desperate for it," House continues to Foreman. "Thinks I can't tell."

Wilson conspires to look supremely bored. Foreman raises an eyebrow at him, but he doesn't insist again. After a moment, House rolls his eyes and starts stripping, ditching his blazer and button-down on the floor, and pulling off his t-shirt in one long smooth move that shows off his lats. He's slower to get up on the exam bed, and he mostly uses his arms to lever himself up, his pecs and biceps bunching when they take his weight. Foreman sets his jaw and turns his head, but it's stupid to stare at the wall. He turns back. House is pouting at the exam bed with an expression of utter distaste on his face, like a picky cat circling a puddle. It looks completely incongruous with the sucker sticking out of the side of his mouth.

Foreman frowns and forces himself to examine House medically. His stomach isn't flat, but then, from what Foreman remembers, it wasn't before, either. Still, there's no obvious weight gain, except where the button of House's jeans digs in to his skin a bit before he pops it open. Foreman concentrates on Wilson, who is absently checking the ultrasound screen. "Lie down," he says, and House pouts but does as he's told. Wilson squeezes out a dollop of conductive gel onto the end of the wand and spreads it over House's abdomen.

House doesn't have a lot of hair on his chest and stomach, but the gel slicks it down and darkens the line of curling hair that runs from his navel to the elastic of his boxers. They're blue, Foreman thinks randomly, and kind of hates himself.

At least House didn't notice him watching: he's staring at the ultrasound screen and backseat-scanning. He removes the sucker from his mouth with a _pop_ and licks his lips, tossing the rest of it in the garbage. "Up, up, I don't have a fucking uterus," he says.

Wilson lets House direct, moving the wand in circles just under House's ribs, and then says, "There we go." He points to a spot on the screen with his free hand. "The embryo's implanted on the abdominal wall, near the liver. There's the heartbeat..." He grins softly.

"Ugh, save me," House says. "There's a reason Hallmark wants you to say it with a card." He grabs the wand out of Wilson's hand, propping himself up on his elbows to move it himself. "How's the position relative to the hepatic artery?"

"Looks fine," Wilson says. "It's a viable spot; the amniotic sac is intact, the liver is probably your best bet for attachment of the umbilical vein..."

House throws the ultrasound wand on the cart with a clatter and falls on his back. "Shit."

"House..." Wilson picks up the wand again and runs it over House's stomach, finding the heartbeat again. He hesitates, then sets the ultrasound to print the scan.

"Fucking _shit_," House says, staring up at the ceiling.

"It's...it's good news. It's a good location." Wilson shrugs and glances at Foreman before turning back to House. "You're both healthy."

"I am not a _we_," House says. He sits up abruptly, smearing the gel on his belly when he fastens his pants, swearing under his breath and wiping his hand clean on the paper covering of the bed. Wilson passes him a box of tissues, carefully bland. House grabs a handful, wiping himself off as best he can and throwing the wad of tissues at the garbage can. Foreman flinches back when he misses.

"Fuck!" House shouts. He half-hops, half-falls off the exam bed, and then steadies himself on it before glaring at Foreman. "This is your _fucking_ fault," he says, leaning forward and pointing. "_You_ could have just sucked me off--"

Foreman rolls his eyes. The louder House gets, the more calm Foreman feels. How they had sex is the last problem on the list, and the fact that House is blaming him for it only makes him feel viciously sarcastic. "If _you_ had finished the handjob..."

House's infuriated look is the perfect reaction, and Foreman smirks smugly at him. House limps closer, getting in Foreman's space, and says, lower, half-badgering and half rough come-on, "Next time I'll fuck _you_ and see how much _you_ like it."

Foreman raises his chin. If House wants to be intimidating then he's going to have to try a lot harder, and _next time_ is completely out of the question. "Probably not half as much as you did," he says, and then, to cut him a bit deeper, he adds, "Are you always that hard up for it? You were--"

"_Stop_," Wilson says. Foreman and House both turn to look at him. Wilson's covering his face with one hand and holding up the other like a horribly embarrassed traffic cop. "Just...stop. I don't want to know."

House snorts, then pivots and hooks his t-shirt off the floor with the tip of his cane. He pulls it on, but right before it goes over his head, Foreman catches the glint of humour in his eyes. He's laughing at Wilson again. He's _involving_ Foreman again, the two of them against Wilson's staidness, as if they're _together_, and that panics Foreman so much he snaps, "When are you getting rid of it?"

Wilson stares at Foreman neutrally and says, in a carefully empty voice, "I can schedule the surgery..."

House stops where he's standing--his t-shirt is still rucked up a bit and Foreman can see a band of skin just over his hip--and doesn't say anything. He's looking down at his button-down shirt, as if he's considering the mechanics of picking it up as well. "Then what?" he says roughly. "I stick it in a jar and mail it to a science fair?"

Foreman stands up straight for the first time. House has always been the one in motion, pacing, throwing things, yelling. Wilson sits calmly on his stool, watching House inscrutably, but now that House has stilled, stopped, Foreman can't contain himself any longer. "What happens if you _don't_?" he says. "You wait seven months, you have a C-section, and then you're a _father_, you're responsible for a _child_. It's a pretty fucking simple decision!"

House shifts his weight, almost a shrug, and stares at Foreman, blinking slowly, his face completely blank.

Foreman shakes his head, breathing quickly. "No," he says. "No. _You_ called it a parasite. So get rid of it while that's all it is!"

House turns away from Foreman as if he isn't really speaking at all. Wilson starts putting away the ultrasound machine, the wand, the gel. He tidies up the clinic room as if he expects it to be inspected by the queen, tearing off the crumped sheet of paper on the exam bed and replacing it with fresh; picking up the tissues House threw and dropping them in the garbage. He picks up House's button-down and blazer and places them on the bed. He's not meeting House's eyes at all; he's not acknowledging Foreman even exists.

Fuck him. Fuck them both. "You are not doing this to me," Foreman says coldly. He's going to walk out, and he is not coming back.

House takes his time picking up his shirt and pulling it on, and the blazer over top. Then, without a word, he pulls the exam room door open and limps out, leaning heavily on his cane.

"What the hell?" Foreman says to Wilson. "You've got to make him--"

But before he can finish, Wilson shoots him a dark look and gives a tiny shake of his head, and walks out after House.


	6. Chapter 6

"Oh no, are you busy?" House shouts, stomping into Cuddy's office, making every movement bigger than it has to be, enjoying the dramatics. "I'd hate to _interrupt_\--"

Cuddy exchanges glances with Brenda Previn and pushes the paperwork they were bending over towards her. "If you could just follow through with this--"

"Is this a bad time?" House booms, pushing closer to the desk, getting in between them so that he can knock Cuddy's rolling chair back and unbalance her, turning his back on Previn so that he can say, conspiratorily but still as loud as possible, "I wouldn't bother you, but I just got the _best_ gossip about the nurses around here, something I think you really should know, _boss_."

"I'll get back to you, Dr. Cuddy," Nurse Previn says. Somehow she manages to share a sympathetic eye-roll with Cuddy while glaring at House with all the acid disapproval at her disposal. House decides she's a worthy opponent and sticks his tongue out at her. She gathers up the stack of papers, acting as if she's just smelled something rotten in the bottom of her vegetable crisper. House hounds her right to the door and smacks it shut behind her, just short of clipping the back of her scrubs.

That annoyance dealt with, House collapses length-wise on Cuddy's couch, tipping his head back over the armrest. The ceiling is ugly. "God, I hate this place," he says meditatively. "Wanna ditch?"

Cuddy considers him calmly. House wonders when she perfected the art of not reacting to him. It seems like he went away to college, and by the time he got back, she was all grown up and completely unruffled by all his jokes and comments that had always worked so well before. He kind of respects that about her. Not enough to say anything. Enough to throw Wilson into her path, though. Even though he had no idea that would actually _work_, and it's not that he regrets it, exactly, but who the hell do they think they're seriously _kidding_, with their happy marriage and loving family and fulfilling careers? House makes a face at the ceiling. It stays ugly.

"What have you eaten today?" Cuddy asks. "_And_ managed to keep down?"

House lifts his head enough to meet her speculative look. She's resting her chin on her hands and raising her eyebrows. She's always enjoyed surprising him. "Wilson has a big mouth."

"Hm, yes," Cuddy says. "I know it upsets you that you'll never find out exactly _how_ big."

Since that doesn't deserve the dignity of a reply, House drops his head back and says, "He tried to feed me _oatmeal_ this morning. As if that was going to _stop_ me from vomiting."

"So you haven't eaten."

"And he wants me to choose a fucking OB-GYN," House says. "A doctor with at least three letters in his specialty that don't apply to me. Was he this stupid with you?"

"All right," Cuddy says, with something rapidly approaching either 'I am secretly laughing at you' or else 'sisterly affection'. Not, House reflects, that it couldn't be both. "Let's ditch."

*

Cuddy's favourite sandwich shop isn't far from the hospital. House insists on taking the bike--he has a feeling either Wilson, or Cuddy, or both, are going to bypass nagging entirely and start dismantling it before much longer, something about "riding in _his condition_", so it's better to take advantage while he still can. Cuddy loves the bike, anyway, not like Wilson, the coward, who's never once allowed himself to be coaxed on to the bitch seat. When House pulls up in front of the bistro, Cuddy's smile is brilliant, and her eyes are sparking. House grins back at her.

"I'll see if I can get you a stay of execution until five months," she says, since she seems to know by his driving what he was thinking. She hands him his extra helmet, smoothing back her wild curls. She leans close, gives him a kiss on the cheek, and says sweetly, "After that, though, you ride and you die."

With that, he pretty much has to be content.

*

They have a routine--they've always had a routine--that's only varied slightly since the fucking infarction. House stakes them out a lunch spot, clearing a path by laying about him with a cane and staring pointedly at the teenagers with books spread out across the table he's chosen until they wither and disappear. Cuddy stands in line and orders them an obscene amount of food, smiling at the barista and flirting for best service. Ten minutes later she sets a tray down in front of him, and House gapes at her, betrayed.

"_Salad_?"

"And chicken soup," she says, "and a tuna sandwich."

"Where the hell is my coffee? And, I don't know, my _actual food_?"

Cuddy points at the carton of two-percent milk that House was hoping was a hallucination.

"Et tu, Cuddy?" he whines.

"Eat," she says.

House sets his jaw obstinately. If he weren't disgustingly hungry, he would have a thing or two to say to her. As it is, he digs into the soup, which is almost as thick as stew, and completely delicious. "I hate you," he mumbles, and takes another bite.

Cuddy tilts her head and smiles. "At least we'll never know if you're having mood swings."

House sneers at her halfheartedly and keeps eating. Cuddy sips coffee--evil woman--and munches on a cream cheese bagel. He's only halfway through his meal when she finishes, and she sits back, watching him. House glares at her, but really, he does have room for the salad after all, and he's thinking about sending her back for a piece of chocolate cake as big as his head.

"You're serious about this," Cuddy says softly.

So this is why she agreed to ditch. It wasn't just about feeding him up. House stops chewing and meets her eyes briefly before looking back at the remains of his sandwich. Cuddy's eyes are bright blue--the same as his--and concerned, uncertain. House frowns at his plate. It's hard to swallow his last bite.

"House, tell me what you're thinking," she says.

"I can still get rid of it," he mutters. "Up to four months."

Cuddy doesn't say anything immediately, which is almost a surprise. When he glances up, she nods slightly.

House shrugs. "I'm too fucking old for this," he says. "When the kid's eighteen, I'll be a senior citizen."

"Barely," Cuddy says lightly.

She might actually get it. House sits back and studies her. "Wilson thinks I'm the most adorable thing he's ever seen."

"He thought that about me, too," Cuddy says. "I think the word 'glowing' was used at least once a day."

House pokes at the pickle garnish on his plate. He hates pickles. He's always hated pickles. This one looks really good.

"I wasn't sure I wanted Robert," Cuddy says thoughtfully.

House raises his eyebrows. That was right after the infarction--in fact, the timing was always suspiciously accurate. Robert was born almost nine months to the day after the debridement surgery and myectomy. Not that House was counting. Not that he threw that in Wilson's face during most of his recovery. "Going home to Cuddy?" he asked, sweating and limp and broken from PT. "Who needs you more, huh? Hard to decide today? Maybe when you're done fucking the guilt out of her, you can come back and help me get off the fucking floor."

Wilson stayed, probably more often than he should have. Not exactly his most shining moment. Not exactly House's, either.

"Sorry," he mumbles.

Cuddy sighs. "But I'm glad I did. And with Allison...we were trying, for most of a year."

"I'll bet," House says, trying to leer.

"Shut up, House," Cuddy says gently. "I'm trying to say...it changes your life, but..."

House looks away, thinks about getting up. They're not so far from the hospital that he couldn't abandon Cuddy here, take his bike and just start driving, climb up into sixth gear and see how high he could push the speedometer.

Cuddy reaches across the table and catches his hand, not to hold it, but to pin it down, to stop him from leaving. "If this was going to happen, House, then the timing isn't bad. The ketamine worked. You're not on painkillers."

"Much," House mutters.

"Since you found out?"

House smoothes his fingertips on the laminate of the table, tugging back against Cuddy's grip. "No," he admits.

Cuddy lets go. "It's your decision," she says, looking at him steadily. "But I think you would have done it by now, if you were going to."

House drops his head. She knows him, sometimes better than Wilson. "This is going to be one screwed-up kid," he says, and tenses slightly when she laughs.

"Understatement," she says. "House. It's going to be fine."

House picks up the pickle and bites into it with an incredibly satisfying crunch. "No, it won't," he says, and grins at her. He knows he's right, but for now, he doesn't care.

*

Foreman slides into the seat across from his dad, smiling politely at the waitress and asking for water in order to get rid of her. "Hi," he says, trying not to tense up. Dad isn't always the most understanding. A few years ago, a few months even, and he would have called Mom if he needed anything. That's not really an option, now, and instead he's got Dad watching him like he's wondering just how depraved Foreman has become since the last time they talked. Foreman sighs and picks up the menu, studying the choices and not able to remember a single one when the waitress comes back. He orders the special, and Dad asks for the same, and Foreman has no idea what he's going to end up eating. Not that it matters.

"How are you doing?" he asks, to delay the inevitable.

"I think you know how we're doing. Nothing's changed much." Dad eyes him, that look on his face that always managed to make Foreman feel guilty, even when he didn't think he'd done something wrong. "So what did you want to bring me all the way out here to tell me?" he asks.

"Dad, I..." Foreman frowns and folds his fingers together on top of the table, leaning forward. Dad watches him quietly. He's always been a big man, but his shoulders have started to slump as he gets older, his barrel chest sinking into the weight around his middle. He's always been solid, immovable, like a mountain. Foreman's not going to be able to wait him out. Foreman forces himself to smile--Dad can probably tell. "I think...you're going to be a grandfather," he says.

Dad hmphs, as if he's not surprised in the least. "I take it this wasn't planned," he says.

"No," Foreman says. Typical; the first thing his dad is going to do is blame him for being irresponsible. That's a lesson he's already learned, more than he ever wanted. "You could say that."

Dad nods somberly. "Are you going to ask her to marry you?"

Foreman winces. Like he doesn't have enough horrors to contend with. He tries to imagine waking up next to House for the next thirty years, both of them flossing their teeth at the same sink, going to work, coming home to him--God, it would be awful. That's not a commitment he's ready to make, _especially_ not with House. "We aren't. No."

"I know you're gonna want to do the right thing," Dad says. "If she's a nice girl."

Foreman would love to bury his face in his hands, but he's already made enough scenes in restaurants to last a lifetime. He's bearing up better, even though he hasn't heard from House again. If this happens--and from the way House was acting, it looks like it's going to--then he's not going to neglect his responsibilities. He was taught better. "What if he's not?" he asks.

"What are you saying?"

"He's not," Foreman says. "A nice girl." He can't help chuckling a bit, thinking about House's reaction to that description. "He's anything but."

Dad frowns, like a storm gathering. "Are you telling me you still--"

"Yeah," Foreman says. He's sick and tired of being judged. He came here for some support. He should've known better. "Yeah, Dad, nothing's changed. And I just don't think this is something I can do. I wanted him to get rid of it. That's probably what you're hoping for too, now."

"This is a child," Dad says, his voice getting rough around the edges. He stabs the table with his forefinger. "Don't you dare assume you know how I feel. How it came to be, that's up to God. But don't come to me for forgiveness when you're thinking of terminating an entire life, as if it was nothing."

Foreman spreads his hands on the table. "Dad...whatever it was like for you, I don't think it's going to be the same for me." He can't go through with this--this _change_. It's too big, and it's not the right time and it's definitely not the right person. And what the hell does it matter that it might never happen again?

Dad pushes away from the table, shaking his head. "I know you think that's true," he says. He stands up to walk out, but before he does, he says, "Eric, you got your job, you got your home...are you just going to leave them empty?"

And that's the question that Foreman has never wanted to think about answering.

*

Foreman gets out of the cab three blocks away from Cuddy and Wilson's house and starts walking. He wants to give himself plenty of time to turn around, to not do this at all. He didn't call ahead, so he has no idea if anyone will even be home. There are lights on in the main house, but Foreman heads around it into the backyard, where the smaller guesthouse sits off to the side. The lights through the window are dimmer--the flicker of a television, maybe--but it's enough to tell him that House is there. Foreman looks around the yard, then tips his head back and stares up at the sky for a long moment, before making what might be the biggest mistake of his life. And then he knocks.

House doesn't answer for long enough that Foreman thinks about running away--all just a stupid, childish prank--and he dries his hands on his pants, counting slowly to thirty. He's at twenty-eight when the door opens and House is standing there, wedged up against the jamb, staring at Foreman impassively.

After a moment, Foreman says, "Look..." but before he can finish, House turns around and heads inside. Foreman follows him cautiously. Most of the main room is taken up by a couch and television, but the bed--Foreman glances at the mess of sheets quickly--is right there as well. The place is tiny, but he supposes House eats Wilson and Cuddy's food most of the time. He probably doesn't entertain much--who'd bother showing up?

Foreman's not sure what to do with himself, so he closes the door and waits. House drops onto the couch and picks up a folder from the end table, opens it, and starts reading. Foreman's going to try talking again--any second--but House interrupts again.

"Fellowship at Princeton General. Chief residency before that," he says. "And offered a neurology position at Sloane. Very prestigious."

"Where the hell are you getting this from?" Foreman asks, dropping his coat and moving into the room. He still doesn't know where to stand, and he ends up at the end of the couch, looking down at House's comfortable sprawl.

"First in your class at Johns Hopkins," House continues blandly, and glances up at Foreman. "Hm, and a juvenile criminal record."

Foreman's not falling for House's lazy, smug grin. It's definitely not absurdly charming. The bastard can't respect privacy at all, he reminds himself, and grits out, "That was sealed."

"I have my sources," House says. He smirks again, and he rubs his thumb idly over his stomach, near the hem of his t-shirt.

Foreman rolls his eyes. "Why the hell are you digging into my life?" he asks. "You have my work number, and now this?"

"I'm not incubating substandard genes," House says. He pauses, then adds, as if he's almost disappointed with the verdict, "Yours are adequate."

Foreman scoffs. "Yeah, criminal record and all."

"I like it," House says, with an inscrutable look. "It's interesting."

There's really nowhere to sit, since House is taking up the entire couch and the room has no chairs. Foreman isn't touching the bed. He sits on the coffee table instead. "So you're keeping the baby," he says.

House's expression closes immediately, until he's stony and blank. Foreman wishes it weren't so damn obvious when House was trying to hide...whatever. That he was upset, or scared, or whatever the hell he was feeling. Foreman did that to him, and he doesn't like the implication, that he can hurt House that easily. "Listen," he says. "I've changed my mind. I want to be involved."

House rolls his eyes. "Oh, how fucking reassuring," he says, reaching for his cane.

Foreman grabs his wrist before he can get it. "I'm sorry I was an ass," he says. "But you told me pretty badly. I wasn't expecting it. I've had time to think about it now."

If he's expecting House to accept the apology, or offer one of his own for scaring the hell out of him, then he doesn't know House well enough yet, because House just snorts. "Great," he says. "Now what? We turn into the happy gay couple? Run up to Canada and get married? I get Wilson as my flower girl; he'd be devastated otherwise."

"No," Foreman says. "I'm going to help, but I'm not brain-damaged."

"You say the sweetest things," House mutters, and shoulders himself up until he's half-sitting. "Fine, you've been honourable. Now get the hell out."

Foreman looks down at House's wrist in his loose grip, the way his forearm muscles bunch when House shifts uncomfortably. There's his out, if he was looking for it. But there's something about House's defensiveness that draws him, like there might be something underneath the asshole if anyone bothers to make the effort to find out. Probably pretty deep underneath, and he doubts House shows it to anyone, but just knowing it's there makes Foreman feel like he's in control--like he knows more about House than House wants to let on. And Foreman might not be the country's best diagnostician, but he's not blind, and House's looks have felt a lot like flirting.

"So," he says, grinning, feeling House's pulse race under his fingertips, "is this our second date?"

"How can you tell?" House snaps, sitting up the rest of the way and pushing him back. "You've probably never had one before."

Foreman grins. That's a point for him; House is out of his depth, trying to drive him out. Foreman's feeling contrary enough that that just makes him want to stay. "Yes, I have. Second date is getting to know each other and blowjobs."

He half-expects House to make some sneering comment about fucking and family dinner on the third date, but instead, he says, in a low voice, "I already know everything about you."

"No," Foreman says, with no doubt at all, "you don't."

He slides to his knees, where there's just enough room between the table and the couch. House inhales sharply, before Foreman even touches him. Foreman rests his hands on House's thighs--he can feel the depression in the right, but he doesn't really care, and House doesn't object. When he gets House's jeans open, his dick is already half-hard, and Foreman grins to himself before taking him in his mouth.

Foreman is completely certain that he can surprise House. He's not that predictable; House can't explain him no matter how much he digs into Foreman's past. And it's perfect when House grunts and spreads his legs, like he can't hold back, like Foreman's better than he expected. Foreman sucks harder--nothing like finesse; this is about results--and House's dick swells against his tongue. His hand is tight on Foreman's shoulder, his breath hitches into a quick, irregular rhythm that matches the movements of Foreman's tongue.

And more than showing off, Foreman _does_ want to apologize. Words are too easy for House to brush off or ignore, but this--House will let this be something deeper, mean more. He uses his body like that, to say everything, and Foreman is fine with using that to his advantage. When House finally lets out a groan, that's forgiveness--when his hips jerk upwards, uncontrolled, that's him admitting Foreman was right--and Foreman's getting off on it, his cock hard against the seam of his pants, so that when House comes in Foreman's mouth, sharp and bitter, he doesn't even mind swallowing, and stroking House through the rest of his orgasm.

"Could have warned me," he says at last, for form's sake.

House looks down at him, pupils blown until his eyes are twilight-blue. "Shut up or you don't get any," he says, and heaves himself up to limp to the bed.

Foreman smirks. "Guess I don't need to worry about a condom this time?"

House gives him a withering stare, but all he says is, "Don't get used to it."

Foreman never planned to.

Now, he's wondering if he should.

*

In the morning, Foreman wakes up with House watching him, like he's the most adorably stupid person he's ever met.

Foreman thinks: _thirty years of flossing_.

Somehow, it's not as scary as it was yesterday.

He grins slowly, feeling warm and pretty damn at peace with the world. "Morning," he tries, wondering if House is up for a repeat of last night. He certainly is.

"Your morning breath makes me sick," House tells him. Then, in a shove of blankets, he's gone. Foreman winces at the sound of retching from the bathroom, but it's not long until water's running, and then there's the vigorous sound of House brushing his teeth.

"Right," Foreman says to himself, rolling over on his back, kicking the sheets down. So much for that idea.

But then House comes back, takes one look at him, and leers wolfishly.

They manage to work something out after all.

*

House drags him to Cuddy and Wilson's after they've showered. "Food," he says, and Foreman's stomach is growling loudly enough that he doesn't protest much.

House bangs into the kitchen as if it's his morning routine, and from the way neither Wilson or Cuddy even looks up, it probably is. When Cuddy looks over and sees Foreman, though, she swallows a smile and nudges Wilson. He glances up from the waffle iron and grins too. "Morning, House," he says. "Morning, Foreman."

"Morning, Wilson," House says, blithely ignoring the looks and settling on a bar stool at the island in the middle of the kitchen. Without missing a beat, Wilson grabs another plate, cuts a finished waffle in half, and serves both of them.

Allison is sitting in a booster seat at the table, banging her spoon on her plate and singing the Barney theme song to herself. Foreman really, really hopes that he'll be getting some coffee soon, and just as he's thinking it, Wilson passes him a cup. "Thanks," he says, and Wilson smiles.

House is just starting to eat when Robert comes belting into the room, blond hair bouncing, yelling at the top of his lungs. "Uncle House!" He launches himself at House, throwing his arms around him. House looks down on him like he's a puppy that's just messed on the carpet.

"What's the rule?" he says, shoving Robert back gently with one hand and eating more waffle with the other.

"No hugging Uncle House before coffee," Robert says, with a doe-eyed look of utter rejection.

"Or...?" House prompts.

"Or when 'm sticky," Robert finishes.

"Okay," House says. "So go get me some coffee."

Robert beams. "Mom! Uncle House wants coffee!"

"So I heard," Cuddy says dryly. She pours out a glass of milk and hands it to Robert. "Be careful, honey. House, you could stop treating my children like your personal gofers."

"Well, duh, of course I _could_," House says, as Robert carefully brings him the milk, holding the cup steady in both hands. "This isn't coffee," he snaps.

"Mom says you can't have coffee 'cause it'll stunt my cousin!" Robert yells back.

"Fine," House sighs. Robert grins and hugs him again, squeezing him around the waist. House endures it patiently, looking like a pride lion that has decided not to crush the skull of its cub just yet.

When Robert lets go, he leaps over to the kitchen table and starts devouring the waffles that Wilson puts in front of him, grabbing with both hands. Allison looks on, thankfully quiet now that she's stopped up her singing with her thumb.

"Allison, stop sucking your thumb," Cuddy says. "Robert, don't eat waffles with your fingers. Wilson, could you please do something about your children?"

Wilson sighs and hands Robert a fork, then turns to gently extricate Allison's thumb from her mouth and replace it with a bite of waffle. He gets a syrup handprint on his shirt for his trouble. House snickers.

Wilson turns around and gives House a dark stare. "House, I bought some baby books last night," he says innocently. "I was at the bookstore, and, ah--"

"Oh my _God_," House says. "Can you give it a rest? I'm a doctor! So are you. So is Cuddy. So is Foreman! I think we have enough expertise to handle the situation."

"Well, yes, but--"

House cuts him off. "And you bought a library full of that crap the last two times you proved your heterosexuality."

"Well, but your circumstances are a little different," Wilson says, dignified, and passes House a hardcover.

"_What To Expect When You're Not Expecting Male Pregnancy_," House says, rolling his eyes elaborately before passing it to Foreman. "For fuck's sake."

"I think it will be good for you," Wilson says firmly, and includes Foreman in his look. "Both of you."

Foreman raises an eyebrow skeptically. The cover is tastefully abstract, but the lettering is so bold and cheerful that Foreman despises the authors instantly. He opens the book to a random page. "'Don't worry too much about the delivery,'" he reads out loud, because the tone of the book is too brightly sappy not to share. "'Your doctor will be recommending a Caesarian section...'"

"You mean assbaby isn't the technical term?" House says, pulling on an expression of gob-smacked shock. "Good thing Wilson paid thirty bucks for this book, I thought I was going to end up as the next Goatse home video."

Allison leans sideways in her booster seat until her pigtails fall free. She stares at House wide-eyed, sucking solemnly on her thumb. After rocking back and forth thoughtfully for a minute, she takes her thumb out of her mouth. "Mommy," she asks, "where do assbabies come from?"

Cuddy sighs and stares at House. Foreman is incredibly glad he didn't know the two of them growing up. He's surprised their parents didn't murder both of them and then cheerfully enjoy their prison sentences afterwards as something of a reprieve.

House grins. "Yeah, mommy," he says, imitating Allison's whiny sing-song. "Where _do_ assbabies come from?"

Cuddy picks up Allison in her arms and cuddles her. "Well, sweetie," she says, "that's a very good question. But I can only tell big girls who don't suck their thumbs any more."

Allison pouts at Cuddy--it's an expression that Foreman can tell comes straight from House--and then stuffs her thumb back her mouth. "I don't care," she says, with haughty finality.

Cuddy smiles pointedly at House.

House heaves a disappointed sigh. "Damn," he says, "and I was really looking forward to the story."


	7. Chapter 7

**SIXTEEN WEEKS**

The elevator doors rumble open on the clinic. House does a visual reconnaissance first, peering suspiciously out of the safety of his large metal box that can take him right back upstairs to his office, his recliner, and his remote. He listens, next--no immediate sound of the wailing of the damned (or the vomit-spatter of the damned)--and finally does a sniff-check for any of the more disgusting bodily fluids.

Unfortunately, everything seems calm. House grimaces and heads for the admit desk, in the lolloping gait he's developed recently, letting the cane take most of his weight--which is more than it used to be, which plays hell on his lower back, which pushes him that much closer to taking out most of the hospital in a brilliantly-executed coup that leaves all his annoyances dead and all his nemeses suffering. He's in no fucking mood, but Cuddy recently threatened him by mentioning clinic hours and the upcoming Board vote on whether to make cable pay-for-play only in patients' rooms in the same breath. For now, all that's getting him through hell is General Hospital on SoapNet. If Sam tells Lucky that they can never go back and it's finally all over between them, House thinks his allergies might just flare up again, damn them.

"Dr. House," Nurse Previn says, dropping a stack of charts in front of him that looks a lot like a heap of useless, mind-numbing persecution. "Only half an hour late." She smiles at him in the way that has grown even more evil over the last months or so; she may have been taking lessons from Cuddy. Except Cuddy's smiles have been getting progressively sappier lately, and if House starts _glowing_ any more, he has a feeling she won't be able to refuse him anything. Brenda, on the other hand--if House is ever asked to point out Keyser Söze in a line up, he knows exactly who he'll be looking for.

House digs through the pile of charts to try and find anything that doesn't involve asking anyone to take off their pants. "Foreign object, foreign object, vaginal itching, it burns when I pee, I think something's wrong _down there_..." He glares at Brenda. "Doesn't anyone just sprain their wrist any more?"

"I have a sprained wrist here," Brenda says. "Hm, but that one is also complaining of chafing."

House narrows his eyes at her, but she's completely deadpan. "You saved these up," he accuses her, not without a little admiration for a move well-played, even though he doesn't know what she wants yet. The tiny twitch of her lips proves him right, and he grins, anticipating getting the better of her. "Where are the rest?"

Brenda coolly raises an eyebrow. "Interested in two concussions and a dislocated finger?" she asks, bringing out a chart from under the desk.

House casts a quick eye over the waiting room. They aren't injuries that will be easy to spot a distance, but protocol doesn't interest him in the slightest. He turns away from her, disappointed that the game of wits is so quickly over, ready to yell for the broken finger or the headache to follow him to an exam room.

"It'll be the same tomorrow," Brenda says. "And every day after that."

House wheels back on her. Brenda waits calmly, waving the chart, letting him think about just how many yeast infections and haemorrhoids cases she can dump on him. Cuddy gets some kind of twisted pleasure over having Brenda Previn supervise his clinic hours, and he's not likely to escape her any time soon. "What do you want?" he says.

Brenda takes a moment to enjoy her victory. "Your due date," she says.

"What the hell are you talking about?" House snaps. It's better than a blank stare, but not by much. Brenda clearly already knows, and she's savouring every second of it. House has never in his life worn his shirt tucked in if he wasn't forced to, but he knows that disguise isn't going to work much longer. The weight gain is starting to show, and not just around his middle. Stealing Wilson's pants seemed like a good plan at first, but the man doesn't have half the ass that House thought he did--or at least, not half of House's current ass.

"Dr. Cuddy started scheduling all your clinic hours during the afternoon," Brenda says.

"Told her I needed my beauty sleep," House says.

"She has you here during General Hospital. Every day."

"I may have drop-kicked one of her rug rats. Who knew she was so protective?"

"You're letting Wilson drive you to work during the best weather of the season."

"If I don't take him on car rides, when will he have a chance to stick his head out the window and pant?"

"You're pregnant," Brenda continues, as if he hasn't spoken. "And I want in on the Radiology pool."

"There is no Radiology pool," House snarls. Rhonda won't take his money, but House keeps up anyway--and tips the balance of all the worthwhile bets in the direction of whoever's most worthy that week. Wilson's won more than his share, just by having access to House's conniving along with his own charm. House manages to get his hands on at least half of those winnings. All in all, it's a good system--and it means he knows which books Rhonda has open. There is no pool on his kid, because the hospital doesn't know he's having a kid.

"Not yet," Brenda says, like the worst kind of unscrupulous mind-reader. "How much longer do you think that's going to last?"

With Brenda's evidence and the way his abdomen is expanding, not long at all. It'll be a hefty pot, with his due date as the prize. Wilson and Cuddy will be out of the running as being too close to the action. House considers what he can wring out of Brenda in the meanwhile.

"I'll give you the date when I know it," he says, trying for both humble and grouchy at the same time. "Send me one idiot with pus and the deal's off."

Brenda smirks and holds out the dislocated-finger chart.

House snatches it out of her hand. "Too bad everybody lies," he says. "Cuddy's giving me the time off anyway." He laughs in the face of her death glare and turns to the waiting area. "Okay, who's the idiot who can't catch a frisbee?"

A guy in his twenties raises his hand tentatively, showing off the purple-yellow lump around the base of his knuckles. "You're up," House says, and waves him at an exam room. "Don't give up your day job as a hellbeast, Jessica Fletcher," he calls over his shoulder, and backache or no backache, he's feeling better.


	8. Chapter 8

Sometimes, Foreman wonders how he managed to get sucked into this insanity that was, at one point, his life. He's wondering exactly that when Wilson calls him up and invites him to come shopping for baby clothes--"And a crib," he says, "and a bassinet, and probably a change table," as if he's consulting a list and joyfully adding necessities to it, as well as Teach Your Child Mozart mobiles and early-socialization educational toys (probably a good investment, given House's role in both the kid's nature and nurture).

Foreman dubiously agrees to go, and five minutes later the phone rings again--obnoxiously, he thinks. He's not surprised at all that it's House calling to rant about Wilson's idiotic over-sentimental mushiness and everything that he's done in the last few months in the name of his cheesy, cornball insistence that House is going to melt into a puddle of goo, hormones, and baby-talk the instant he lays eyes on their very own little mistake.

"House, I'm coming shopping with you," Foreman says.

House shuts up on the other end of the phone. Foreman imagines him sprawled out on his couch, a heating pad shoved under his back and _Congratulations! Even Though You're A Boy!_ holding up the uneven end of his coffee table. He's probably frowning, suspicious, tugging at his lower lip with one hand. Foreman smiles, because House can't see it and can't mock him for it. "Wilson asked me," he adds. _So don't put yourself out_, he thinks, even though he's pretty sure that's why House called.

"If you pick out one thing with a baby ducky on it, I'm getting a court order for full custody," House says.

"Yeah," Foreman says, quietly, still grinning. He thinks about asking House how he's doing, but frankly, he doesn't want to waste his evening listening to House complain and insult him and his penis with every second breath.

Instead, he doesn't say anything, trying to picture House exactly: he's started wearing nothing but sweats with faded elastic when he can get away with it, because he doesn't want to stretch out his precious t-shirts. The rest of the time he's stuck with baggy jeans and pants from a Big and Tall store, and Oxford shirts that strain at the buttons. Foreman listens, and he can practically _hear_ House pouting, because Foreman's not giving him anything to work with. Foreman's beginning to learn when to fight and when to shut up, and when each thing will annoy House the most. It almost, in a strange way, works for them.

"I hate you," House mutters into the phone after a long, quiet minute, and then there's a click and the dial tone.

"Yeah," Foreman says, dropping the receiver on his leather couch. "I hate you too."

*

Foreman shows up at Cuddy and Wilson's door--on his day off--for a fun outing of shopping at baby stores--with House.

Yeah, he's definitely certifiable.

Wilson opens the door with a big, enthusiastic grin. "Foreman! Good to see you," he says, tactfully not mentioning the mornings when Foreman sneaks out of House's place and makes a run for his car rather then get stuck in family-breakfast hell.

"Hey," Foreman says, with a quick, polite smile. "Are we--"

"Come on in," Wilson says, "we're almost ready."

Foreman follows him to the dining room, but for once there isn't the shriek of children to greet him, and he relaxes a bit. Cuddy is sitting at the dining room table, wearing glasses and perched over a laptop. She raises her eyebrows at him as he comes in, and he grimaces at her; at least they agree that _they're_ not the crazy ones.

Wilson's finishing up with the dishes, and he waves Foreman to take a seat as he loads the dishwasher. "I'm worried about the nausea," he says to Cuddy. "He's still throwing up in the mornings."

"He is not," Cuddy says distractedly. "He's into the second trimester. He's faking."

"Just because your morning sickness faded doesn't mean his will--"

"Oh, please," Cuddy says. "He yelled 'I think I'm going to be sick' in front of twenty people with food poisoning and winked at me before hiding in the bathroom. He was watching a baseball game in the handicapped stall when I hauled him out."

Wilson pauses in scrubbing a casserole dish. "Twenty people with food poisoning?"

"Broken freezer at the food court, and don't think you're distracting me," Cuddy says. "He's getting out of control."

"He's...just being House."

"That's what I mean!"

Wilson sighs and starts up the dishwasher. "I'll talk to him."

"Really?" Cuddy turns around in her seat. "Would that be before or after you help him rig a Jell-O cannon to the clinic doors?"

"Um," Wilson says, carefully looking down as he wipes up the counter. "Did that happen?"

"There is a feud going on in my clinic!" Cuddy says. "And you're a part of it."

"I take the fifth," Wilson says, looking up with an endearing grin. "Come on. You know he hates Brenda."

"He doesn't hate her," Cuddy says. "It's worse than that; he likes her better than von Lieberman. Better than Brown!"

"It's...not entirely one-sided." Wilson shrugs and moves across to the dining table, sitting down next to Cuddy. "She tricked him into treating a puerperal mastitis case the other day."

"Clinic patients aren't practical jokes! Spiders in the nurses' locker room, on the other hand--"

"He promised me they were plastic," Wilson says.

"Yes, well, tell that to the exterminator I had to hire," Cuddy says.

Wilson reaches for her hand. "Lisa..."

"And don't call me Lisa as if you aren't a part of it!" Cuddy says. "You're encouraging him, _James_, and I'm the one who has to clean up the mess."

"You're being too hard on him," Wilson says. "You need to give him time to adjust. He doesn't like change."

"He can deal with it," Cuddy says. "You're giving him permission to be an eight-year-old instead of dealing with the fact that he's going to be a father."

"It's better than letting him get depressed," Wilson says. "As long as he's declaring war on Brenda, he's not upset about not being able to get around as much, or the back pain, or anything else."

Cuddy shakes her head in disgust. "And I get to be the bad cop."

"He _likes_ you as the bad cop. It gives him fond memories of his childhood."

"It gives me fond memories of kicking his ass."

"There, you see," Wilson says, sliding his arms around her, and smiling down at her cajolingly. "It's not all bad." He kisses her gently.

Cuddy rolls her eyes and allows it for a minute before pushing him off. "I can't believe you're taking him shopping for baby things. We still have all of Allison's and Robert's hand-me-downs."

"It'll be good for him to get out." Wilson grins again and runs his hand down her arm. "Allison and Robert are playing with friends. I am taking House--the merest hint of the possibility of House--off your hands. The place is clean, you don't have to work..."

Cuddy tilts her head slightly. "Hm," she says dryly. "No ulterior motive at all?"

"Not one," Wilson says, with a Boy Scout smile that hints at something warmer. "I want you to _relax_."

Cuddy lets out a disbelieving scoff, but this time, she kisses him, slower and more promising. "Thank you," she says. "Now get the hell out."

"There's the woman I married."

"You better believe it." She waves halfheartedly at Foreman. "Enjoy," she says, in a tone that suggests the possibility is as remote as the South Pole.

Foreman has to agree. The idea of getting House to enjoy a shopping spree for onesies and car seats and whatever else Wilson thinks is both needed and adorable seems about as likely as getting him to shut up when he has a smart remark to make.

He heads out and waits while Wilson pulls Cuddy's minivan around, as close to the guesthouse as he can. He leaves the engine running while he knocks on the door. "House! Let's go."

After a pause, the door opens, and House stares at both of them like they've conspired against him, looking distinctly pissed off. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Yes, you are," Wilson says.

"Let me clarify," House says. "I am not _walking_ anywhere."

Foreman glances doubtfully at Wilson. House is right, he's not exactly equipped for a sole-destroying march through the mall. Putting on the baby weight has been hard on him, not just because he has to work harder to support himself on the cane, but also because it throws his balance off, leaving his limp more exaggerated than ever. He's been complaining of back pain pretty much constantly since the third month, and it's only going to get worse.

"I have your wheelchair," Wilson says.

"Wonderful," House says. "It's a good thing I'm not attached to anything important, like _my dignity_."

Wilson stares back impassively, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of gloves. They're black leather, fingerless, with velcro fastenings at the wrists. It doesn't seem like much of an argument to Foreman, but House raises his eyebrows, impressed, and grabs them to pull on. "Nice," he says. "I also want a pony and a Playstation."

"You can have Foreman and batteries for your Gameboy," Wilson says, deadpan.

Foreman nearly chokes, and House grins. "Why, Jimmy," he says. "Was that an actual joke?"

Wilson shrugs diffidently. "Get moving," he says. "There's a sale on baby accessories at Babies 'R' Us today."

House sighs and hauls himself to the van. Foreman stays carefully on his right side, because he really does look like he's going to topple over at any moment, and the cane can't possibly be enough to catch him. House glares at him but allows it. He even waits pointedly for Foreman to open the door for him, and then he slumps in the front seat and starts playing with Cuddy's radio presets.

Once they're on the road, Wilson glances in the rearview mirror and says to Foreman, solemnly, "Bribery works."

Instead of denying it categorically, House says, "Only if you know what I want," and smirks to show off his unimpeachable standards.

Since Foreman has learned a lot about what House wants, he figures it won't be a problem.

*

Wilson is in his element the moment they step inside the store. He grabs a cart and shoves off, already consulting his list against the store directory. Foreman looks down at House, sitting in his wheelchair with his hands resting on the wheels. House looks back up at him and rolls his eyes. "Come on," he says, "or the kid gets smothered in baby ducks."

Foreman sighs. It's probably true. They start after Wilson, House gaining a good amount of speed and freewheeling down the aisles. The hangers are filled with tiny outfits, all of which are screaming "cute!" at top volume. The boxes are covered in pictures of happy couples with giggling babies. All of them show a man and a woman, and all of them are blond and blue-eyed. Perfect families with perfect strollers and perfect playpens. Foreman frowns and shoves his hands in his pockets, hunching his shoulders and wondering where the fuck Wilson has gone. He heads for the furniture section, since he knows that a crib, at least, is on the list.

House weaves in and out in front of him, blocking his path as much as possible. Foreman doesn't feel like playing his stupid games and ignores him, walking around him as much as he can.

"Hey!" House shoves the chair forward and runs over his toe.

"Ow, fuck!" Foreman hops back, glaring. "What the hell was that for?"

"I'm trying to get you to pay attention!" House says, and wheels at him again like a bull charging a matador.

Foreman jumps sideways to avoid him. "To what? The fact that you're a menace in that thing? I figured it out, thanks."

"No, you idiot." House spins on one wheel and comes back, playing bumper cars with Foreman's feet. He clips Foreman's shin with the brake on his way past, and it hurts like a bitch. House turns around again, glaring, hands poised on the wheels for another run at him. "To the fact that the idiots who built this store obviously made it for Wilson," he says, and starts forward.

"What are you talking about?" Foreman dodges again and gets behind House, grabbing the wheelchair's handles to stop him.

House twists around in the chair, elbowing Foreman in the stomach as he turns. "Guys who spend two months' salary on the engagement ring," he says. "Who wait until marriage, and then are satisfied with only getting any once a week. Guys who work eighty-hour weeks and play daddy on the weekend."

Foreman blinks. "Wilson...?"

"No, he didn't wait," House says, rolling his eyes, his voice rich with _duh_. "He was making it with Cuddy from the second date and they haven't let up since. And she's his second wife. And I've met his college girlfriend, and _she_ was still missing the magic fifteen years later."

The danger of House roller-derbying him to death seems past, so Foreman lets go of the chair. House heads down the aisle at walking pace. He's easy enough with the chair that he must have had a lot of practice. The months after the infarction, Foreman supposes. He follows, more slowly, mulling over what House was saying.

He catches up with House at the next corner. Wilson's in the middle of a field of cribs, consulting with one of the clerks. "You're saying it's not who Wilson is," he says. "It's who he wants to be."

"Wilson wishes he was that boring," House says, waving at the father spooning pablum into his baby's shining face on one of the advertisements.

Maybe. Not that it matters. House would like to believe that he'd never be friends with someone boring, but Wilson's life matches all these picture-perfect families as far as Foreman's concerned. "What does that have to do with me?" he asks.

"You don't think you're boring," House says. "But you're a lot closer than he is. That's why this stuff bothers you."

Foreman shakes his head, letting out an amused breath, because it's easier than getting angry. "You have no idea what's bothering me," he says, with the quick assurance that he knows House hates.

House frowns at him, as if considering the possibility that Foreman might not be an open book to him. "You hate this," he says. "Can't go out and kiss the boys when you're stuck with three AM feedings."

"Maybe that's what you're worried about," Foreman says. He gets that House is scared. He can see it, and just because neither of them will ever say it doesn't mean it's not there. It's not what bothers him, though. "That doesn't mean I feel the same way."

House snorts derisively, but he doesn't try to continue picking at Foreman. He heads off into the maze of cribs, getting up on one wheel as he careens around them. "Wilson!" he yells, tipping the wheelchair onto its back wheels, holding himself steady by gripping the spokes. "Pick a damn crib and let's get out of here, already."

Foreman follows him, glad enough to leave the interrogation behind. He knows what's bothering him, and there is no way he's going to share it with House.

*

They're almost finished--Wilson is supervising the loading of a build-it-yourself crib into the back of the van, and House is popping wheelies, threatening to tip over backwards and cracking his skull open, which is a thought that terrifies and satisfies Foreman in equal measure--when a voice calls out, "Eric!"

Foreman whips around to see Marty Hamilton heading across the parking lot. His first instinct is to dive for cover; his second is to give House the last shove he needs to ensure that he won't be talking any time soon. He ends up offering Marty a sickly smile and letting himself get pulled into a hug.

"It's been forever!" Marty says, drawing back and pumping his hand enthusiastically. "How've you been? How's New Jersey?"

"Great," Foreman says, trying to return Marty's hearty tone. "Great. How are you?"

"Never better. I'm in town for a conference, just a few days."

"Great," Foreman says again, nodding, hoping that Marty will get the hint and keep on moving. They haven't even seen each other for three years, and that didn't end well. He thinks Marty might still have his Jazz Classics CD.

But Marty is looking past Foreman's shoulder, grinning his 'I'm an amazing person and you'll love to meet me' smile. House has come wheeling up next to Foreman, smirking fatuously, eyes bright blue and fixed on this new point of interest.

"Hey, _Eric_," he says, lathering the sarcasm on with a trowel. "You going to introduce me?"

"This is Marty Hamilton," Foreman says lamely, and then has absolutely nothing to follow that up with, so he continues, "This is Greg House."

"Hi, Greg," Marty says. "Great to meet you. How do you know Eric?"

House's eyes gleam with laughter. "_Marty_," he says. "I'm his babydaddy." He spins back on his wheels for a second, and stares off into the middle distance, considering. "Or is he my babydaddy? I always get that confused."

Marty blinks, darts a look at Foreman, then turns back to House, who's cradling his stomach as if it contains the most precious thing in existence and simpering like a Victorian lady about to faint from the consumption. Foreman sighs and looks away.

"You're having a kid, Eric?" Marty says. "Well, hey! Congratulations. That's--" He grins at House, taking him in with a glance and judging him even faster. "That's great. That's...great."

"Yeah," Foreman says. "Well. We were just--"

"Right, right," Marty says. "Well, I hope I get an invitation to the wedding. Vermont, with the foliage--"

Foreman hates the universe. He sincerely does. "We're not--"

Marty tips back on his heels. "Oh. Well."

"Yeah." Foreman grimaces. "Well."

"Bye, then," Marty says, jovial to the last. House glares at him as if his energy is an affront to everything he stands for. It probably is.

"Bye," Foreman mutters, and turns away.

Behind him, there's a sudden _thunk_ and a yelp of pain. "Oops, sorry, _Marty_," House calls. "Haven't got the hang of this thing yet." He wheels past Foreman, heading for the van, where Wilson is waiting for them with his hands on his hips. House weaves and spins like a champion murderball player, braking at the last second and dusting Wilson's loafers with gravel. When he stands up to get into the van, he shoots a grin at Foreman. He's clearly proud of himself, and Foreman can't help but laugh out loud.


	9. Chapter 9

Foreman steels himself before knocking on Cuddy's office door. Nobody knows he's here--well, House doesn't know he's here, although the same nurse is watching over the clinic like an eagle, and she doesn't miss him coming in. Foreman makes himself walk past her as if he has every right, but she's still really scary.

When he knocks, Cuddy looks up from her paperwork. Her eyes widen when she sees him, and she waves him in, standing up and coming around her desk. Foreman goes in, not hesitantly--never let a Dean of Medicine see you sweat--but probably with every one of his reservations showing.

"Is everything all right?" Cuddy asks, hurrying over to him. "House? The baby?"

"Everything's fine," Foreman says, reassuring for her sake. If she'd seen House at all today, she'd know that; he's his same irascible self, causing as much chaos with his wheelchair as he ever did with his cane. Wilson has put his foot down and said that it was either the chair or enforced bedrest. House's response was, "You and what handcuffs?" but Wilson only raised his eyebrows significantly and shared a glance with Cuddy. House's expression went through an extraordinary transformation through incredulity, realization, horror, and ended up intrigued.

"Wait, does she tie you down or do you do her? If it's her I don't want to know; walking in on her in the shower when she was fifteen was bad enough. If it's you, I want details."

Wilson sighed and said, "Let's just leave it at the fact that I can make good on my threats," and that idea alone seemed like enough to make House accept the chair, with as much good grace as he ever showed--that is, none at all.

Foreman sits down on Cuddy's couch, his elbows on his knees, and stares at his hands. He hates not knowing what to do. House does that--makes him question himself.

"What is it?" Cuddy asks, sitting down at the other end of the couch.

"Look, I've been thinking," Foreman says. "About this...arrangement." He tries to smile at her, but Cuddy tilts her head and looks at him skeptically. "Do you think House is waiting for something more?" he asks, and when she raises her eyebrows at his vagueness, he adds, "From me."

"Oh, God," Cuddy says. "You're not going to propose, are you?"

Foreman sits up straight. "No!"

"Because that would be a disaster. He wouldn't just say no. He'd hate you. He'd laugh at you, and then he'd hate you."

"I'm not proposing!" Foreman shakes his head. This is such a bad idea. "I don't want to marry him. I know how it sounds, but--"

"You want to be able to run away," Cuddy says, nodding.

Foreman shoots her a flat, annoyed look. "I'm not trying to get out of anything."

"No, of course not," she says. "But it's House. If you didn't want to escape him from time to time, you wouldn't be human."

"Not quite," Foreman says. The problem is, House is the one in control. He's got everything, and Foreman's just hanging on, waiting. It's his kid, but House won't let him get close, or share in anything that's happening. He has to bulldoze his way into House's checkups if he wants to know what's going on. And ever since they ran into Marty in the parking lot, House has been worse than ever, questioning his motives, trying his fucked-up best to drive Foreman away. He's never felt more stubborn in his life, but if he just makes it through these nine months then it's got to get better.

That's what he wants to hear from Cuddy. That it'll get better.

He should've known it was stupid to hope for.

*

"He asked me to move in with him!" House shouts, using his wheelchair to bash Wilson's office door open.

Wilson looks up, a pen in his mouth, his eyebrows conveying a touch of befuddlement and a lot of resignation. "Foreman?"

"No, the Goth rentboy the agency sent over," House says. He pushes the wheels and runs into Wilson's desk, knocking his paperwork sideways as he signs another poison-til-you-puke all-day treatment package at lovely Princeton-Plainsboro. "Of course Foreman. No one else has knocked me up recently."

Wilson sighs at his smeared signature. "Are you thinking about it?" he asks, as if he's not interested in the least in hearing the answer.

House backs up and runs into the desk again. Wilson wants him to gain his fucking independence, and House is fine with mooching off of him until he's paid for being out of town when House's thigh muscle decided to die on him. "And give up your scintillating company?"

Wilson's lips twitch. He sits back and crosses his arms, _smiling_, the bastard. "How, exactly, did he ask you?"

House lets his head fall back and lets out a frustrated breath. "I ran over his stupid foot. He said 'At least at my place you'd have room to turn around'."

"And you thought that was him asking you to move in."

"He's been dropping hints for weeks. His building has an elevator! There are ramps out front! They can accommodate all the goddamn cripples in the world!" House throws the brakes on and heaves himself out of the wheelchair, one hand supporting himself on Wilson's desk, the other going automatically to his stomach. He's growing a mutant kid, he's got to be. There's no earthly explanation for how goddamn huge he's getting. He limps heavily to Wilson's couch and eases himself down. He hasn't managed a full, satisfying throwing-himself-down-without-fear-of-consequences in months.

"The guesthouse is pretty small," Wilson offers blandly. "For the two of you."

House stops rubbing his lower back and turns on Wilson suspiciously. "He's not my fucking boyfriend."

"Mmhmm," Wilson says, descending to the Cream of Wheat depths of blandness. "Every day for the last week. Five days the week before that--"

"God, you're like one of those old ladies with a dozen cats and a pair of binoculars," House says. "You'd be right at home with Mrs. Winkirk." So maybe Foreman's been coming over a lot. That doesn't mean a fucking thing. He probably thinks House will fall over and damage his sprog if he's not there. He's the one with exes popping up like mushrooms after a rainstorm. Ugly, stupid mushrooms, with shining, smug smiles they probably paid an unscrupulous dentist a small fortune for. Mushrooms House would like to track down and punch in the face.

"House," Wilson says--and, oh, god, _here_ it comes, the lecture; he was just waiting with bated breath for this one-- "Did you ever think that maybe Foreman...likes you?"

House rolls his eyes. "No, that idea just slipped my mind, during all the sex," he says.

"Not everything is about sex, House."

Wilson's definitely being more dense than usual. Of _course_ everything is about sex. If he'd never picked up Foreman--or let Foreman pick him up, or however he wants to distribute the blame today--then none of this would be happening. He wouldn't have some guy walking into his space five nights out of seven and badgering him to eat, and no, not the jalapeno pizza. Shoving him on his side on the bed and attacking his backache with probing, strong fingers that always found the exact spot until House was swallowing back groans of pleasure, finding the ways that hurt so damn good and left him warm and lazy and remembering the haze of too much Vicodin. Sucking his dick if it had been a really bad day, demanding at least the same in return as if he'd earned it, as if he knew it turned House on just as much to make Foreman give it up. Kissing House afterwards like it mattered. Falling asleep in his bed. Waking up unflappable and grinning, and if House had known he'd be chained to a fucking _morning person_ for the rest of however long this was going to last, then he would have had the abortion after all.

It's easy. It's too fucking easy, because Foreman is still an asshole, still arrogant, still holier-than-thou, and House can yell at him all day and bug him all week and not get bored with his wide-eyed glares and his conceited smirks and just having him _there_ to be...whatever. Not his boyfriend. Because it's the sex that mattered, and if weren't for that, then Foreman would never have stuck around.

House scratches his eyebrow with his thumbnail. He lies back on Wilson's couch and closes his eyes.

"You laughed at him, didn't you?" Wilson says.

House grunts. Obviously.

There's a slight sound, Wilson moving his hands helplessly across his desk. "I think he's trying."

House snorts. "He wants me barefoot in his kitchen."

"He wants to have this baby with you," Wilson says.

House draws his eyebrows together, frowning fiercely.

"Sorry," Wilson says, amusement threading through his voice. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"Shut up," House mutters, and shifts against Wilson's couch cushions, still refusing to open his eyes.

"Take a nap, House," Wilson says. "It'll all be better in the mid-afternoon."

_Yeah, right,_ House thinks, but he's already sliding into sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

**TWENTY-FOUR WEEKS**

 

The restaurant that Cuddy chooses is excellent, with soft lighting, softer chairs, and discreet waitstaff to guide them across the dining room when their reservation is ready. Wilson smiles winningly at Cuddy and pulls out her seat for her, and she touches his hand on her shoulder softly before he moves to sit beside her. Foreman sits on her other side, taking his napkin and placing it in his lap, and refuses to look over his shoulder. House is lurking by the lobster tank, yanking at his tie as if it's a noose.

"Excuse me," Wilson says to them, as if he's going to the washroom rather than heading purposefully across the room to wrangle a recalcitrant diner. He leans down and murmurs something in House's ear that makes House grimace, but he doesn't throw on the wheelchair's brakes or try to make a futile, short-lived run for it when Wilson takes hold of the chair's handles and pushes him across the restaurant to join them.

House glowers at his plate. He's half an inch shorter than anyone else because of the chair, and clearly resenting it. He's wearing one of his better suit jackets, a deep blue one that actually goes with his tie, but it would be impossible to button it. He's gained at least thirty pounds, and it's all concentrated on his abdomen, above his waist, making his tall, long frame look gangly and thin in comparison, especially when he stands up. When he's sitting in the wheelchair, it's harder to tell that it's pregnancy weight, but the way he holds a hand over his stomach nearly constantly--and, Foreman thinks, unconsciously--gives him away. Foreman smiles, warmth filling him, feeling his chest tighten, and he accepts House's glare as pretty much the same sentiment.

Their waiter comes by a few minutes later. "Have you chosen a wine?" he asks.

"Have you ever heard of fetal alcohol syndrome?" House snaps at him. "Or does mommy still have some 'splaining to do?"

The waiter raises a disdainful eyebrow. Wilson and Cuddy look at each other silently, as if they're passing married-couple notes. "Just water, please," Wilson says.

The waiter sniffs, pours them water from a jug, takes their orders, and disappears again. Probably for the rest of the evening, if he can get away with it.

"I don't see why you won't tell me if it's a boy or a girl," Cuddy says. "Have you thought about names yet?"

Foreman glances at House, but he's sneering at his glass as if it's the water's fault that it's not Glenlivet. "Not yet," he says diplomatically.

"Don't leave the decision up to House," Cuddy says. "He named me, and look how that turned out."

Wilson grins. Foreman raises an eyebrow. "He named you?" House is still not paying attention, watching the other diners as if he's intent on diagnosing each of them with something messy and preferably fatal.

"House was seven when I was born," Cuddy says. "He'd already claimed the family name and didn't feel like sharing, but he refused to call me Lisa. Cuddy was our mother's maiden name." She glares at House. "It stuck."

House glares back briefly. "You love it," he says flatly, without a hint of his usual underlying humour.

Cuddy catches his tone. She and Wilson exchange another glance. "I changed it officially when I got my medical degree," she says to Foreman, keeping her tone light. "By then it would have seemed strange to be Dr. House, and I don't think I could have lived down the reputation."

House doesn't take the opportunity to boast what an excellent reputation it was. Wilson shoots a worried look at him, but House is sulking in earnest and doesn't even acknowledge it. Foreman holds back a sigh. Usually when House is in pain, he gets louder and more disruptive to cover the fact that he might actually need something, using the irritation of everybody around him to distract himself from the discomfort. This is different, and it's obvious that it's not something Wilson or Cuddy have had much experience with either.

After a pause, Wilson asks, "What kind of formula are you going to be using?" to fill in the silence where House's diatribe should go.

Foreman answers him, but he's distracted. They talk about diapers and baby-proofing and paternity leave, and House gets more and more sullen. He barely touches his food even though Foreman knows he normally eats like a pig when there's half a chance that Wilson will pick up the tab. After dinner, he folds his hands above his stomach and lets Wilson push the chair out of the restaurant without protesting once.

Foreman thinks about going home--this is not something he wants to deal with--but Wilson pleads with him with a glance, and Foreman ends up driving back out to the suburbs. He's practically living out there, these days. He doesn't know what to do with that. He doesn't know how to handle it.

But somehow, he always finds himself going anyway.

*

House can still hobble short distances with the cane, so when Wilson pulls up with the van, he makes his own way to the guesthouse. Foreman walks anxiously at his elbow, trying not to show how tense he is every time House puts weight on his bad leg. House is slower and more unwieldy than ever, and he's only just entering the third trimester. Foreman can't imagine how much bigger he's going to get, and apparently House can't, either, because Foreman has caught him more than once, staring at his own stomach like the monster from Alien is about to claw its way free in a gouting burst of blood and intestines.

He can't say that it's not an image that's popped into his head, too.

House hasn't said anything since the restaurant, and Foreman wonders if he's going to be simply shut out all evening, which at least is better than House picking at him. But when they get in the door, House half-collapses against his side--Foreman has time to think _oh shit, he's falling_\--and then House grabs his shoulder so tightly that Foreman can feel each finger imprint like a bruise, and kisses him.

Foreman lets out a muffled _mmph_, and House pushes into him and kisses him even more roughly, his stomach like a solid beach ball between them. Foreman blinks and steps backwards, but House just follows after him, ending up on his left foot with more leverage than he had in the first place.

It's awkward as hell, with House being both taller and too big around to bend without putting them both in danger of crashing to the ground, but House is determined, and this is still better than either House feeling sorry for himself or House yelling, so Foreman kisses him back. He closes his eyes. It feels good; House's body is warm, and he kisses slick and persistent and a little bit angry, and Foreman's cock stirs because he's learned this, that House will suck him in and leave him seeing stars. He'll lie on his side and bend over Foreman, dipping his head over and over as he takes Foreman's cock in his mouth--deep, so deep, one hand cupping his balls, his stubble scratching the hell out of Foreman's stomach and the top of his thighs, and just that image--that memory--has Foreman getting hard, even though he doesn't know what the hell House wants or what kind of pissy, pig-headed mood he's in tonight.

"Come on," House says, pulling back--Foreman grabs for him to make sure he doesn't topple over backwards. "Get your clothes off," he says, ignoring Foreman's support. He yanks his tie loose and starts undoing the buttons of the shirt he's wearing--compared to his usual clothes, it's a tent, and one he probably intends to burn the moment he has his body back in shape.

"What are you doing?" Foreman asks, glaring. They haven't stopped having sex, and it's not like a blowjob will hurt the baby, but this is different--House's silence, and then the sudden, heated attack.

"I'm horny," House snarls.

"Right," Foreman says, "that's why you're not even hard."

"Whose fault is that?" House snaps, and levers himself across the room to the bed. "Come on, are you going to argue or are you going to get laid?"

He sheds the shirt and jacket, the tie going with it, and drops his pants even faster, keeping hold of his cane through the procedure and stepping out of his shorts. He looks faintly unbelievable, naked, the bulge of his stomach protruding and his bellybutton sticking out, the slightest hint of stretch marks showing under the hair on his stomach. There's something vulnerable about him, then, that makes Foreman want to do more than House will allow him to. He wants to say something, to let himself think _that is my kid; I'm going to be a father; he is having my baby._ And it's ridiculous but it also hurts Foreman's chest in the perfect, shocking way that makes him realize that he wants this, he cares, and then House doesn't look strange at all.

"Fine," Foreman says sharply, and moves to the bed--_fine_, the word between them that's like whispering a sweet nothing, because the fact that they're actually _agreeing_ on a course of action is as close as they've come to saying anything more.

Foreman sometimes misses the early days, before House really started to show, when he'd bait him until Foreman got fed up and pushed House face down on the bed, got up behind him and fucked him hard. He knows that's what House _wanted_, that the reason he liked to laugh at Foreman in bed is because he liked making Foreman snap.

Sometimes giving House what he wants is the simplest solution--and Foreman loves the way House tenses as if he might start struggling, the way his whole body arches, making his shoulders seem broader, the way his head dips down and Foreman can taste the sweat just under the line of his hair.

More than that, House doesn't want him to be careful, doesn't want him to _care_, and it's easy and fast and hard and so _satisfying_ that Foreman can take a hell of a lot from House afterwards. He only has to remember the strained, high sound House makes when Foreman's cock rubs against his prostate in order to be completely calm in the face of his insults.

Not always. Sometimes House's mood turns quiet and introspective, and he kisses Foreman like he's looking for answers for himself in the way that Foreman kisses back. If Foreman ever thinks about staying around for the long term, he thinks about the nights when House tastes him like he's trying to name every flavour, like he's trying to pick apart and label each part of the kiss until he can define it exactly.

House doesn't really want to understand him; he wants to...dissect him, pull him apart and put him back together, and find out everything that makes him move, breathe, fuck, as he goes. And when House is thinking, is thoughtful, then he's at once both so far away that Foreman knows he could never reach him, and he's so clear and present and sharp that Foreman's heart beats faster just meeting his eyes.

Those times, House doesn't want to get fucked. Not because he doesn't like it, which Foreman knows because he's insisted, more than once. He takes advantage of all that tenderness to go slowly, to push in with long, shuddering strokes, listening to the harsh chorus of his breath and House's, both of them panting sharply even as Foreman barely moves. And House moves beneath him then, impatient and desperate and _lost_. When he lifts his chin, mouth open, and lets his eyes slide closed, eyebrows raised, Foreman never lasts.

But what House wants most, in those moods, is to watch him--to _see_ him, Foreman thinks. It's easier, face to face, with hands and mouths or just their erections sliding together, Foreman straining to hold himself up on his elbows, House's hand wrapped around both of them, pulling slow and then fast, reading Foreman's face so closely that it's almost like telepathy when he backs off, waits, draws it out.

He can shift moods so quickly that before Foreman knows what's going on, it's suddenly a contest, and House is using every trick he's learned, every unbelievably adept twist of his fingers, to make Foreman come first, while Foreman sweats and rides out a wave of incredible, focused pleasure, and laughs that House considers that _winning_.

Afterwards, he'll work his way down House's body, not kissing, not nuzzling exactly, but pressing his nose against House's skin, breathing him in. He touches, curious, a finger here, a palm there, the side of his face against House's stomach; and then he will hold House down one-handed, pushing his good hip down into the bed so that he has no leverage whatsoever, and suck him, taking his time, House propping up his shoulders up on the pillows because he likes to watch, intent, intense, while Foreman licks and sucks and brushes his goatee against House's balls to make him twitch at the sensation.

"Fuck, you look hot," he whispered once, and Foreman lost his breath in a rush. House doesn't talk, usually, when it's like this, when he chooses to ghost a fingertip along Foreman's shoulder instead of mocking him, when he allows himself to look at Foreman with an open, tired uncertainty that fades easily into gratification, instead of staring, sharp and cautious and walled away.

Tonight is something different again, because House waits just long enough for Foreman to take off his clothes and join him, and he assaults him again, kissing him like an argument, like he's trying to convince Foreman of something he'd never ordinarily believe. Foreman wants to slow down, to think out what's going on, to ask where the hell this is coming from--when House was brooding and uncommunicative all fucking night--but House palms his cock, firm, fast strokes designed to make Foreman lose his mind as quickly as possible. Foreman lies back and lets him, the sensation running warm-red behind his eyelids, flooding higher, overwhelming.

He runs a hand over House's stomach--it's inevitable, between them, pressing them apart. It gets in his way, but Foreman's gradually gotten used to it. It's not long before he's holding House's dick in his hand, squeezing, rubbing, until House is hard and pushing into his touch. His teeth are gritted, like he doesn't want to give in, but they're moving in sync, in time, each of them holding the other, faster now like a crescendo, and Foreman comes, letting out a long, needy sound. House pumps him through it, and it feels like every muscle contracts at once, like he's centered around this moment, this feeling, until it finally fades.

He's still panting when House grunts and starts to work his own dick--the angle is even worse for him--and Foreman says, "No," and, "shut up, let me," and he nudges House onto his left side--the most comfortable position he's found, with his weight off his leg and the baby supported--and Foreman reaches around, massaging House's dick, dipping his head to kiss the back of his neck, his shoulder. Their legs tangle together, House's shins bony and hairy against his, and Foreman can feel his impatience, but he likes this, the heat of their bodies pooling together, his chest against House's back. The weight of House's stomach brushes his wrist with each upwards stroke. It doesn't take long, and House shudders in his arms, coming hot and messy, and relaxing back into Foreman almost as if--

The baby kicks.

Foreman's breath catches in his throat. He tightens his arm around House, and it happens again--a sharp, distinct kick against his forearm. Foreman spreads his fingers, his heart speeding, and the baby answers, thumping against his palm. House starts out of a light doze at the same time, and grunts quietly. Foreman wants to shout to the rooftops, do something crazy, because this is amazing, this is the most stunning thing he's ever felt. "Do you feel that?" he whispers, moving his hand to follow the baby's quick thuds.

"Kicks all the time," House mutters. "Mostly when 'm trying to _sleep_, who knows where that comes from."

"When did it start?" Foreman asks, feeling like he wants to laugh. This is his baby. This is his _child_.

House digs his head deeper into the pillow, his shoulder jutting up and digging into Foreman's sternum. "Month ago. I dunno. Can you shut up now?"

"And you didn't tell me?" Foreman shakes his head and tries to follow the movement again, leaning further over House's shoulder. "This is--"

House tenses sharply and throws an elbow back. "Fuck off."

Foreman sits up and glares down at him. "What's your problem?"

"Right now? Being your fucking test tube," House says.

Foreman rolls his eyes. "You're scared because you actually have to face the fact that you're having a kid, not growing the world's biggest tumour."

"Are you saying I look fat?" House says, in the worst attempt at a falsetto that Foreman's ever heard.

Foreman lies back down and staring at the ceiling in the dark. The joy from a moment ago bleeds away, leaving him feeling restless and pissed off. "Just grow up and deal with it, House," he says flatly.

House reaches for the light and switches it on, rolling to his side and sitting up. "Get out of my house," he says.

"What?"

"Get out," House says. His back is turned, so that he's nothing but a silhouette against the lamp.

Foreman gets up on his elbow. This is coming out of nowhere. "What the hell--"

House bends over, grabs Foreman clothes from the floor, and shoves them into his chest. "Get the fuck out!" he shouts.

Foreman grabs the clothes and shoves the sheets away. There's no fucking talking to House when he's like this, when he's shut down completely, when he's being fucking irrational. "I'm sick and tired of taking your shit, House," he says. "I'm not here because you're horny, or because you like having your own personal punching bag around! What the hell do you want from me?"

House cuts him short with a furious look. "I want you to leave," he snaps ruthlessly.

"Right," Foreman says sardonically. "And you think I'm going to come back?"

House doesn't answer; he rolls over and turns off the light.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Foreman mutters. He's not going to let House jerk him around like he's holding the puppet strings. The kid is one thing, but House is entirely another, and Foreman's just reached his limit. Good riddance, he thinks, good _fucking_ riddance.

He dresses in the dark and walks out.


	11. Chapter 11

**TWENTY-EIGHT WEEKS**

Cuddy storms into the guesthouse with a look in her eye like a tiger, a hurricane, and Satan got together to plan chaos, wrath, and bloodshed. "You," she says, "are having a _baby shower_?"

House groans and lets his head drop back over the arm of the couch and shuts his eyes. He hates Wilson. He despises Wilson. He's wondering why he never had Wilson shot, drawn, quartered, tarred, feathered, and dropped down a mineshaft. "He told you."

"No!" Cuddy says, and starts to pace. "The first I knew about this was when Mrs. Winkirk called to RSVP and asked if we wanted her to bring a casserole, House!"

House opens one eye to keep track of her movements, in case she decides to attack. He's been watching this particular show since she was fifteen and running as a freshman for president of her high school council, ranting about Jeff Yeager and how the football voting bloc was a travesty of cliquishness. She won that, too, by destroying Jeff Yeager in the debates; House has no idea where Wilson gets the idea that she wouldn't notice a gaggle of grandmothers gathering in her house to celebrate House's little mutant contribution to the family. Wilson's got to know he'd never survive the experience if he didn't get Cuddy on board first, but obviously that didn't even enter his mind. House really, really hates him.

"You married him," he says, rubbing one hand fretfully over his forehead. It's a weak defense but it's all he's got. God, this couch is fucking uncomfortable, and it's getting suspiciously worse over the last few months, and his back is seriously killing him. "I _told_ you to sleep with him and move on, but _no_\--" He starts to struggle upright, since it's pretty clear that he won't be watching Luke and Laura gazing soulfully into each other's eyes uninterrupted.

Cuddy doesn't even pause. She's on a tear, spinning around to pin him down with a glare. "And if Mrs. Winkirk is coming, that means that the entire Homeowners Association expects me to be there, and to be the perfect hostess, and to _smile_, and to make sure that Robert and Allison are cute, clean, quiet, polite when spoken to, and no where near the chocolate cake."

"Not. My. Fault." House drops his hand to his abdomen and tries to soothe the spawn, which kicks like Foreman is the descendant of soccer stars. Then he remembers that he's definitely _not_ thinking about Foreman, and he scowls right back up at Cuddy. "Why aren't you yelling at Wilson?"

"He's not home yet," Cuddy says, in her _he dies the moment he sets foot in that door_ voice, which, all of Wilson's failings aside, House hasn't heard that often.

He takes a moment to be very afraid for Wilson, smirking a bit. He can just hear Wilson's soothing "But, honey,"s. He's a dead man. Cuddy stops pacing and turns on him, a very dangerous smile on her face. "You seem very calm about all this," she says.

Dangerous ground. "Yeah, I have so much time to be concerned about Wilson's crazy plans between bathroom trips every forty minutes," he says. "Speaking of which..." He grabs his cane and tries to wave Cuddy aside, getting to his feet like a beached whale that has decided to move up the evolutionary scale to the point where it can walk.

"You're going to have to sit through an afternoon of pampering and questions about the due date," Cuddy says, following him down the short hallway. House rolls his eyes, but it's pretty mild revenge from his years of pulling pranks that involved her bathroom door being 'accidentally' unlocked, as these things go. "There's no way you weren't pissed off when he suggested it. He promised you presents, didn't he?"

House winces. "Said we could trade in any bassinets for Toys R Us gift certificates," he admits in a mutter. Five pointless, expensive gifts that Wilson will veto for being unsafe or unsanitary, and House will have enough bling gathered for his very own PS3. To avoid disemboweling by a rabid Cuddy, he shoves the bathroom door shut in her face.

"I'm going to kill him," Cuddy shouts through the door. "I'm going to double his clinic hours, and then I'm going to kill him."

House leans one forearm against the wall while he pees--it's the only way to prop himself upright--and considers pointing out that she'd just have to cover those clinic hours all over again once she'd killed Wilson, except she'll probably dump them on _him_ if he questions her logic. He finishes, washes his hands, and opens the door again, trying to do it fast enough to bark Cuddy's shins if she's standing too close. She knows him, though, so she's not, and he only manages to tip himself off balance, so that he has to grab for the wall. "You'd have two fatherless children," he says, since Wilson needs a little defending. Not much. But some. "And no sex life."

Cuddy tilts her head to one side, and suddenly she's not angry anymore. She's looking at him like she feels sorry for him, and where the hell did that come from? "Oh, House," she sighs. "I'm sorry."

He scowls at her when he gets it. Fatherless children. No sex life. "This isn't about him," he snaps, and shoves her back.

Somehow, that turns into her supporting his bad side as he makes his way back to the couch. "Get off," he says, but Cuddy always knows when he doesn't really mean it, and she only gives him another cloyingly sympathetic look and keeps her shoulder under his arm until he's slumped back on the couch in front of his soap again.

"Maybe you should call him," Cuddy says gently.

"I have Wilson to bring me pickles and ice cream," House says.

Cuddy rolls her eyes. "Yes, and two-thirty in the morning three nights ago was a very convenient time for that craving to manifest," she says. "I'm not talking about your snacking, House."

"Why? Did Wilson's little grocery store trip interrupt _yours_?"

Cuddy shakes her head and sits down on the coffee table. House determinedly turns his face away from her and wishes he had a better escape route planned. He hates being cooped up, he hates the fucking wheelchair, and PS3 or no PS3, he's going to hate the baby shower. He doesn't want the fucking Homeowners' Association in his business, probably asking after the lucky husband, as if that fucking matters. He's going for presents, and because Wilson asked with his puppy-dog eyes and floppy-haired pout, and because there's this thing growing in him that might turn out to be a person that he's responsible for, and he better be getting some fucking acknowledgment for that before this whole thing is over.

"If you want to help me kill Wilson," Cuddy offers, "I promise I'll dig the grave."

House can't help grinning weakly at that. This is, really, what sisters are for.

***

They really should have murdered Wilson. No judge in the land would have convicted. By Saturday, Wilson has the whole house cleaned, primped, and arranged, by an army of maids from their usual service as well as his own internal neat-freak run amok. Robert has been shanghaied into accepting the guests' coats at the door, bribed with a dollar per pinched apple-cheek and hand ruffled through his blond mop; Allison has been dressed in her pinkest, frilliest, most unicorn-covered dress and plugged up with the soother that Cuddy has been trying to get rid of for months; and Cuddy herself has been soothed with the promise that Wilson will keep up with his own clinic hours as well as House's throughout his entire paternal leave. House suspects that sexual favours were also part of the bargain, but he can't get Wilson to confirm or deny.

Wilson badgered House into wearing his blue tent-sized shirt--the one, out of all his tent-sized shirts, that Wilson claims brings out his eyes the best. He's been escorted in and plunked down in the middle of the couch, fruit juice placed within reach, his cane carefully _out_ of reach ("I'm not going to have you assaulting the Decorative Lawn Ornaments Subcommittee, House! They still hate you from the time you put up forty flamingos on the lawn for my birthday!"), and he's already wishing for the bourbon he hasn't been allowed for the past seven months, because there are pink and blue balloons around his feet, a kitschy banner with CONGRATULATIONS written in silver script hanging above the entryway, and enough ribbons and wrapping paper and cutesy cards with Hallmark angels on every surface that House wonders if Wilson thinks he's giving birth to a cherub and not a screamy, smelly, spit-uppy little human.

"You're a dead man," House says, when the doorbell announces the first guest.

"Playstation 3," Wilson mutters back, before plastering on a welcoming smile.

Within half an hour, the only thing keeping House sane is the delightful vision of making Grand Theft Auto 4 a reality. He'd terrorize Wilson's _stupid_ suburbs with an Uzi and a pimped ride full of crack whores, drive donuts on all their lawns, and then laugh when Wilson was kicked off the Lawn Maintenance Ad Hoc Committee.

In reality, though, he's been reduced to a painful smile and silence, while a flock of vicious old biddies flutter around him. He's being watched by a murder of crows, all of them with beady eyes and cawing voices, waving their soft hands and clinking china as they sip their tea. Wilson has an astonishing talent for making friends with every woman between the ages of twenty and sixty, and it's looking like House might have to revise that age-estimate upwards.

"And where is Eric?" Mrs. Winkirk asks, blinking at him myopically. "Out with the boys today?"

"Ah, he--wasn't able to attend," Wilson says, doing everything in his power to avoid House's glare. So he _invited_ Foreman to this torture-fest. That backstabbing, manipulative bastard. He probably thought he could stage a reconciliation over the cucumber sandwiches. Foreman would have more of a spine than to show up, House knows, because there's no way in hell he's going to back down after what House said to him. And House doesn't want him to. He pushed, Foreman left. End of story, just like the end of every other fucking story of House's life.

"Well, are you boys moving in together?" Mrs. Winkirk asks.

House eyes her suspiciously. She's been asking questions about Foreman since she commandeered the directly to his left on the couch, where she can pet his knee and coo over his belly between reloads of the most insipid tea Wilson can brew. "No," he says shortly, but Mrs. Winkirk's ability to take a hint is at a drastically low ebb.

"I'm just worried about my chrysanthemums, don't you know," Mrs. Winkirk continues, twinkling at him conspiratorily. "The night you and Eric, ah, met, they did get quite a trampling."

House would like nothing more than too bury his face in his hands and never, ever emerge (suicide is a valid alternative at this point, he feels sure), but Wilson looks like he's choking enough for the both of them. Oh, House _will_ be getting him back for this. In untold and unnumbered ways. Probably during every single patient consult for _the rest of his life_.

"Oh, I know how complicated these things can get," Mrs. Winkirk says. "Why, my niece Victoria went through the same thing. Now, she wasn't expecting to have children--just like you! But Audra says it's the most wonderful thing that ever happened to them, and Vicky just loved every moment of it! Now they have a little girl, who's just the sweetest thing."

"Yeah," House grits out. "Great." He's been doing his damnedest to ignore that the thing even exists, because he is the master of denial and even the fact that he's confined to a wheelchair for anything longer than a bathroom trip, the fact that he's been kicked in the bladder two times an hour on average for the past month, and the fact that Wilson's making him go in for checkups every two weeks means _nothing_ as long as he doesn't think about it.

"How about presents?" Wilson says, rather desperately clapping his hands to get everyone's attention.

If House thought the cooing and gurgling had been bad before, it's nothing to what happens with the very first onesie that comes out of its cute little baby-store box. It's tiny, and yellow, and the softest piece of clothing House has ever felt aside from his ten-million-times-through-the-wash college lacrosse shirt. Mrs. Winkirk leads the oohs and ahhs as she drapes it over his stomach, declaring it the perfect fit.

House snatches it off and balls it in one fist, looking for somewhere to toss it. Cuddy rescues him, taking it and starting a pile for the gifts (and Wilson will be the one writing the chipper little thank you notes when this is done), but it doesn't _end_ with one sleepsuit. There are shoes two inches long, and knitted blankets, and bottles and formula, diapers and wet wipes and creams for eczema and diaper rash. Box after box, House rips away the wrapping paper just to get _rid_ of it, because he doesn't want or need all this _stuff_, these tangible reminders that his baby is real.

"Dr. Wilson is such a sweet man," Mrs. Winkirk presses on. "Will he be filming the birth for you? Of course, Eric will be holding your hand!"

House snorts, trying to imagine it. Foreman's not a hand holder. A snuggler, sometimes, if House doesn't keep his guard up. But Foreman would never reach for his hand just to offer comfort. He's more likely to stand across the room, arms crossed, and yell at House for being infuriating, tell him to suck it up, roll his eyes and snort when House places the blame for this squarely where it should be, on Foreman's stupid penis and his even more moronic ideas about protected sex.

House frowns and tightens an arm around his stomach. It's been a month, and it's not like he doesn't have everyone else in the world to yell at. But Foreman would ignore him sometimes, and smile at him softly no matter what he was ranting about, until House ran out of steam because he wasn't answering back.

But Foreman's good at walking out and House is stubborn enough to be good at pretending it was all a mistake.

Bastard.

"'Scuze me," House mutters, and maneuvers his way upright, knocking his way through the balloons and the remains of Wilson's little tea party, grabbing his cane from where it's hooked on the end of the couch. He makes it to the bathroom and shuts them all out. He sits down on the closed lid of the toilet and pulls out his cell phone. He flips it open, then closed, back and forth. Foreman's number is still in the memory. House rubs a hand over his face, staring down at the screen.

It's easy to dial and pretend he's not dialing. It's easy to listen to the message, Foreman's stupid professional voice in his ear, and pretend he's not going to say anything.

"I hate you," he says, when the beep sounds. Then he snaps the phone shut and heads back out to the torture session.

He's pretty sure he deserves it.


	12. Chapter 12

**THIRTY-TWO WEEKS**

Foreman almost doesn't listen to the message. The caller ID is House's cell phone, and in the past that's meant anything from "Bring me food," to "Wilson's bailing on the ball game. You can watch with me if you bring me food," to "Your article in _Neurology_ was complete crap, unless you really meant to imply that there's no causal correlation between immunosuppressive therapy and chronic autoimmune neuropathy. ...And bring me food."

The first week after he walked out, Foreman found himself swinging by the grocery store after work, absently tossing House's favourite snacks into a basket, mixing it up with healthier items that Foreman learned House wouldn't reject out of hand. He wound up at the check-out counter with more food than he knew what to do with, because it had been five days since he'd received one of House's abrupt, moody, half-grudging invitations into his life. He'd paid and brought it all home, and found himself wandering from his living room to his kitchen, opening his fridge and staring at the bounty he'd never even touch: pork rinds, cheese strings, barbeque-chicken flavoured chips, apples that House would slice up and use to dig directly into the peanut butter jar, juice that turned his tongue blue, over-sweetened yoghurt that came in tubes, pizza pretzels and moon pies. Foreman thought about arranging a prisoner exchange, with Wilson as mediator: the food for the shirt he's sure he left under House's bed; the key to the guesthouse for House's (apparently ever-growing) file on everything in Foreman's life from hobbies to family medical history.

But he doesn't call. And House doesn't call. And, as fucking annoying as all House's text messages and emergency calls during Foreman's rounds were ("Just testing," House said, once, when Foreman dropped everything and rushed over to find him lounging in bed with a smug glint in his eye. "The boy who cried wolf didn't have it _all_ wrong."), Foreman keeps reaching for his phone to check that he'd left the ringer on, because suddenly, somehow, this much peace and quiet in his life isn't natural.

The craziness was so constant, and so overwhelming, that he shaped his life to it. He knew he'd have to get used to it sooner or later, because babies manage to be even more demanding than House, and he'd promised that he'd be there for both of them. He doesn't miss the snack runs, or House's hormones, or the fact that Robert came up to him one morning, tugged on his jacket with one sticky hand, and looked up at him beseechingly to say, "Can I call you Uncle Foreman?"

("Make the rules before you let him," House said. "Or he's going to wrap around your leg like an octopus and never let go.")

For a while, Foreman had trouble falling asleep, and he couldn't figure out why, until he realized he was waiting for the tiny hitching sigh that House makes when he moves from semi-consciousness to sleep. And he wakes up in the night, expecting an elbow in his ribs as House hauls himself out of bed for one of a million bathroom trips. He rubs his face and remembers the way the baby kicked against his arm, that last night. The only time he's felt it move. And maybe he misses that; maybe he misses how the baby could have become something real.

But Foreman doesn't miss the chaos--he doesn't miss _House_. He's escaped. That's what Cuddy would call it. A way out, a loophole. It's easier this way.

He sits in his car at the end of the day, with dashboard lights reflecting off the phone, and thinks about deleting the message without listening to it. It might be House, random and bored, working through every phone number in his phone and trying to be as obnoxious as possible. That's probably the most likely, even though he's proved he can do a month of silence if he wants to. It might be about the baby, if House hadn't made it very clear that he couldn't care less about Foreman's involvement.

It might be House calling to apologize, except the recent weather reports from Hell haven't included sub-zero winds and sudden glaciers.

With an impatient grunt, Foreman stabs the button and listens. There's a sigh, first, and then House's voice, rough the way it gets when he's tired.

"I hate you."

Click, and the robot voice asking if he would like to delete this message.

That's it. That's what he was waiting a month to hear. Foreman drops his head back and blinks up at the car's roof, shutting the phone without pressing either save or delete.

"Yeah, House," he says, to nobody at all, "I hate you too."

*

**THIRTY-TWO WEEKS**

Friday nights have grown even longer since Foreman learned his lesson about one night stands. He still gets into the bars he likes without bothering with the line, but after a couple of beers, he's ready to head home. It doesn't help that he can hear House mocking every guy who tries to pick him up; what's worse is that he agrees. He's not supposed to be like House. He's supposed to be the nice guy, the attractive guy, the one who smiles and buys drinks and never gets turned down. And now he's a complete jerk, and he even used the line, "I'm having a kid," to get rid of one particularly persistent moron who figured a grope on the dance floor was all the license he needed for a blowjob in the bathroom.

These days, Foreman mostly spends his Fridays tracking down Princeton General's share of weird cases, the ones that haven't already been transferred to Princeton-Plainsboro. He's not trying to become House. He just needs something to occupy his mind, until it's late enough that he can go home without feeling completely pathetic.

"Come in," he mutters, when a knock comes on his office door. He expects his boss, bringing more charting or assigning another patient, but it's Wilson who opens the door and hesitates on the threshold.

Foreman pushes back from his desk and eyes him suspiciously. "How bad is it?" he asks.

"The baby's fine," Wilson says.

"I meant with House," Foreman says shortly. He shuts off his computer screen and turns to Wilson, steepling his fingers together. "I don't actually need to know."

Wilson steps the rest of the way in, as if he's been invited, closing the door softly behind him. "House has picked a date for the c-section," he says. "He wants to wait until thirty-eight weeks."

Foreman frowns. "That long?"

Wilson nods. "The lungs need time to develop."

"He wouldn't want any less than the best for that first House family yell." Foreman doesn't say that if House waits too long, he'll be in real trouble, since he won't be able to go through normal labour. It's _not_ his business, and Wilson will be watching House like a hawk anyway. He switches off the lights and stands up. Wilson stirs uncomfortably at the door but doesn't say any more. This is a bit more personal than the email he sent with the date and time of House's baby shower. Maybe the last month really has been hard on him--on House. Foreman's not going to ask.

"Foreman." Wilson waits in front of the door, not moving even when Foreman's grabbed his jacket and is doing his best to crowd him out into the hall.

It's over, Foreman could tell him. He tried, God knows he fucking tried, but Greg House just isn't built to let anyone in. House will have the kid. Foreman will visit. He'll send paternal support. If that's all he's getting, then that's all he wants.

Wilson seems to get it, because he hesitates again before he speaks. "He knows he needs you," he says, finally, moving out of Foreman's way. "He just won't admit it."

Foreman snorts. "Has it ever occurred to you that maybe _I_ need something more?" he asks, the words tumbling out before he can catch them.

"He's miserable."

"So he hasn't changed." Foreman rolls his eyes. "What a great argument for coming back."

Wilson dips his head, one hand going awkwardly to rub the back of his neck. "House doesn't give himself the chance to fall for anyone," he says. "If he'd just go out and meet people, then maybe his social circle wouldn't consist of his sister, his brother-in-law, and two preschoolers."

If there's anything worse than House's silence, it's Wilson's sanctimonious interference. "So you're saying that you're giving me your blessing?" Foreman asks incredulously.

Wilson's look turns harder. "He didn't have a choice about accepting you."

"Great," Foreman says, giving Wilson a grimace of a smile. "Thanks."

Wilson lets the sarcasm slide right off, as only someone used to House can do. "At first. But you stuck around. And that makes you interesting."

"Oh, right. I'm a scientific wonder."

"He likes you." Wilson waves a hand at him, as if he's trying to illustrate the unimaginable. "He might never say it, but he probably loves you. And you've been good for him. And I think..."

Foreman clenches his jaw and glares. "That I might never say it, but I love him too?"

Wilson raises an eyebrow.

"I..." Foreman shakes his head. This is such a stupid, _pointless_ conversation. It's not going to go anywhere. It doesn't mean _anything_. "Yeah. I might never say it."

Wilson gives him a look that seems to say 'so don't pretend _he's_ the fucked up one in this relationship'. "One of you is going to have to take a chance," he says. "Otherwise, you're not going to get what you want."

"And you're telling me it's not going to be him."

Wilson shrugs. "You know that by now."

"Great," Foreman says. "So everything's on me."

Wilson stabs one finger at him accusingly. "House has carried your baby for eight _months_," he says. "Don't pretend you're the only one who's sacrificed anything. He might have kept it at first for a stupid reason--curiosity, or contrariness, or just general pig-headedness--but he carried it past four months because of _you_."

"Oh, he told you this?" Foreman paces back into the office, waving at Wilson irritably to close the door if he's going to start telling Foreman's business to the entire hospital.

"You sound just like him," Wilson says, with an edge of a laugh. "You think he didn't show up in my office right around fifteen weeks and make stupid jokes about time bombs and DeLoreans?"

"What did you do?"

Wilson can manage to look absolutely guileless when it suits him, and Foreman hates it. "I asked him if he wanted me to give him an abortion," Wilson says simply.

Foreman cannot believe the gall of this man. "Just like that?"

"Sometimes it's the only way to get through," Wilson says. "He blew me off, yelled at me for being so insensitive, called me a ghoul, compared me to Mengele, told me I was going to hell, hadn't I learned in Temple that killing was on the Naughty list, and accused me of trying to break the two of you up by murdering your family."

"And you took that seriously."

"The part where he even mentioned you at all?" Wilson shrugs lightly and opens the door again, one step from disappearing. "Yeah, Foreman. I did."

*

Foreman stands in the center of his living room after coming home from work. He dropped his briefcase at his feet; his overcoat is still slung over one arm.

He studies everything: the thoughtful placement of the furniture, the meticulous arrangement of throws and pillows, the orderly ranks of his books, his journals, his publications.

The bookcases; the art; the way the chairs in the living room are perfectly placed to maximize the open area and still offer conversational groupings. The huge windows that look out over the rest of the neighbourhood, letting sunlight fall in until it can be felt like a solid thing, so bright that you could reach out and touch it. It's dappled by the flutter of oak leaves from the tree outside, and softened, and turned golden in the gleam of the floorboards.

Foreman pays for a two-bedroom and keeps the second bedroom as an office, a room dim with blackout blinds and a heavyset dark cherry desk, the weight of importance.

But the hardwood floors are pale maple, and the sun could shine in through airy curtains, and the somber walls could be painted a pale, inviting green. He doesn't need the desk. There's another workspace just off the kitchen. There's room enough here for something different. Something more.

Foreman stands in the center of his living room, and thinks: this is his _space_. His _life_.

And then he begins to work.


	13. Chapter 13

**THIRTY-SIX WEEKS**

"You. Did. _Not_."

Wilson edges backwards, baring his teeth in a 'the enraged, slavering cougar is a _nice_ kitty' smile. He doesn't get far. Robert is wrapped around his leg at thigh-height and riding on his loafers, impeding every step. Wilson hugs Allison a little tighter, until she pouts and smacks the side of his head with one tiny fist. Wilson winces and grabs her hands. "House. It's not that bad."

There's so much adrenaline pumping through him that House nearly makes it to his feet in his quest to _strangle Wilson with his own tie_, except right then the baby elbows him in the spleen and kicks him in the kidneys with gymnastic synchronization. "Not that _bad_?" he wheezes, slumping back again.

"It just...came up," Wilson says. "In conversation."

"What the hell were you doing talking in the _first_ place?"

Wilson shifts his weight until Robert nearly falls off his shoes. He bounces Allison a little higher in his arms, possibly trying to use her as a human shield. "I like to keep in touch."

"With the enemy!" House yells.

"It's not like you bother, and Cuddy--"

"And there's a _reason_ for that!" House interrupts.

"House! Family is important. And it's not like it could stay a secret forever..."

House drops his head into his hands and scrubs tiredly at his face. God, as if Wilson's tea-and-cakes neighbourhood ladies aren't enough--a day doesn't go by when one of them isn't dropping in for news, often bringing an unidentifiable casserole or batch of rock-hard cookies like a cat proudly laying a half-dead squirrel on the front mat. All of them want to know how the baby's doing, and how does House _feel_ now that the big day is approaching? For all House knows, during his leave from the hospital--on _Wilson's_ stupid bedrest orders--Wilson's taken up printing a gossip rag and sharing home videos of Robert and Allison playing ring-around-the-cripple and making "We love you, Uncle House," cards out of doilies, white glue, and macaroni. But this time, Wilson's gone too far.

He's saved from killing himself (he's decided that Wilson is too wily a target when 'standing up' is already an hourly challenge) when Cuddy comes in. Wilson immediately cups the back of Robert's head in a gentle push and says, "Mommy's home!"

"Mom!" Robert springs off Wilson's feet with all the grace of a newborn gazelle and whumps himself face-first into Cuddy's skirt, beaming up at her to show off the new gap in his smile. Wilson does the delicate parenting dance of transferring Allison into her arms, so that Allison can plaster a moist kiss on Cuddy's cheek.

Cuddy accepts both kiss and hug, then turns a suspicious eye on House and Wilson. "What's going on?" she asks, every inch the Dean of Medicine.

House crosses his arms above his stomach, the most comfortable place he's found for them in the last month or so. Cuddy is _so_ his ally in this fight, and Wilson has just embarked on his very own land war in Asia.

Wilson offers Cuddy his most charming smile. "Lisa, honey..."

Cuddy's eyes widen and she takes a magnificent breath, and just like that, Wilson's under the fifty-million-watt spotlight of interrogation. "What did you do, _James_?"

"I, um..." It might seem that Wilson's only just realized his danger, but House knows better. Cuddy's now the one chained down with children, and Wilson is poised to flee. "I told Blythe about the baby," he says. "Your parents are coming to visit."

*

"Grandma!" Robert shrieks, two days later, when the doorbell rings. He thunders down the stairs and flings the front door open, and he's gone like a shot, probably hoping for presents.

House gives up on trying to dig his way to freedom from the living room couch. The spoon that came on the tray with his cereal was no good for tunneling, especially considering that he'd need at least a three-foot bore in order to squeeze through to China and freedom. He clamps his hands into fists. The baby's kickboxing about his insides, upset, but for once he doesn't massage it to get it to calm the hell down. His back has been killing him ever since he woke up, and even a heating pad and a half-hearted massage from Cuddy when he whined haven't killed the pain. A minute later, Wilson's at the door, Cuddy very neatly tucked under his arm as if they are The Perfect Family, and not because he's holding her back from knifing him between the ribs.

"Mom, Dad," Cuddy says, when they make it to the door, Robert dancing around them and telling them about how his toy cars were in a huge crash and how he can run faster than anybody in the first grade and how Allison flushed daddy's watch down the toilet and and and and...

"Hi, sweetheart," Blythe says, leaning in for a kiss, setting down her suitcase. "Where's Greg?"

"In the living room," Cuddy says.

"He couldn't get up to say hello?" John asks, thumping down the second suitcase. "He's the one we came to see, isn't he?"

"He's on bedrest, Dad," Cuddy says. "Doctor's orders." House can almost hear the clench of her teeth.

"Huh. That your doing?" John asks Wilson. "You let him loaf too much. And why he's still living with the two of you--"

"He can hear you," House calls out, and slumps further into the couch to look as loafish as possible when John comes in. The most annoying thing about _bedrest_, like he's a Victorian in confinement with a case of the vapours, is that he doesn't have his cane within reach at all times. Nothing to fiddle with. Nothing to lash out with. It fucking sucks.

John takes House in with one glance, his eyes going straight to House's abdomen. His jaw tightens and he looks away. "Damned irresponsible," he mutters. Maybe he even thinks it's too low to hear.

Blythe crosses the room quickly and sits beside him. She meets his eyes, asking permission, and House nods. She touches his stomach, and almost immediately the baby punches her. "Oh, honey."

House smiles tightly. Ten more days, with this stabbing pain that's worse than his leg ever was before the ketamine, except now he can't even take the edge off with Vicodin. After that, he'll have a whole new set of problems to deal with, but at least then he'll occasionally be able to walk into the next room to escape them. The baby kicks again, and his backache kicks up a notch, moving quickly into _agonizing_. "Bet you never expected another grandkid," he says, mostly for John's sake.

John snorts but holds back his commentary. Probably because he can't decide what to criticize first: the fact that his _son_ is pregnant, the fact that his son is _gay_, the fact that his son is gay and therefore he couldn't properly criticize him for not joining the Marines thirty years ago. And, House thinks, half-smirking, he hasn't even met Foreman yet.

"It was a surprise," Blythe says. "You should have called sooner, Lisa." She shakes her head slightly at Cuddy, the mildest form of guilt trip. "I only ever hear about all of you from James."

"I didn't feel this was my news to share," Cuddy says, glaring in her turn at Wilson.

"It must have been a long drive," Wilson says heartily. He's absolutely determined that this is all going to turn out Just Fine. House wonders if he suffers complete retrograde amnesia after every parental visit. "Can I get you something to drink, Blythe?"

"Oh, let me help," Blythe says, and takes his arm as they go to the kitchen. She knows the best source to pump for news, after all.

Cuddy sits down on the far end of the couch, the two of them facing John, who's sitting ramrod-straight in the chair across from them. It's a dismal flashback to every disciplinary session they ever had as kids, and House isn't surprised at all when Cuddy launches into a preemptive strike. She starts talking about the donors she's recently lured into her web at the hospital, the new imaging equipment they'll be purchasing, and how she cowed the board into greenlighting the expansion of the pediatric oncology wing.

John listens heavily as she babbles--nervous, House knows, but she's sitting too far away for him to kick her into silence. He tries to get one hand behind himself to rub at the worst of the pain, which is coming and going in waves.

"And who's taking care of Robert and Allison during the day?" John asks finally, when Cuddy runs out of accomplishments to parade in front of him.

"They..." Cuddy glances at House, then down at her lap. "They have a very good daycare, Dad. Robert's in school, now, too. And Wil-- James picks them up..."

"Doesn't he have his own work?"

"Yes," Cuddy says defensively. House feels sorry for her, and at the same time, he's disgustingly grateful that she's willing to walk into a hail of bullets for him. "His hours aren't as long as mine."

"Must be. Seems like he has time enough to babysit Greg, as well as raising your kids." John turns his scowl on House.

"Yeah, it's too bad I'm incapable of making my own decisions," House says. "Took half an hour to pick a shirt this morning. Do you think I should've gone with the red one after all?"

"Don't be snarky," John says. "I don't think much of this decision. You should have known better."

"Yeah, should've known better than to meet someone in the first place, right?" Should've known better since making out with that kid in his math class in high school. _Certainly_ should have known better during college. Since this is the last bad decision in a long line of things his father hates about him, House is _not_ going to care.

John glares. "You're lucky you have your sister," he says. "Otherwise I don't know what the hell you think you're doing."

"House," Cuddy warns him, but he brushes her off with a roll of his eyes. He already knows he's going to screw up his kid. There's no way he's good enough to be one parent for it, let alone two. He looks down at himself--he's clutching his stomach again, which he finds himself doing more and more often without thinking. It feels like he's got a branding iron glued to his spine.

Wilson and Blythe come back in, carrying a tray of glasses and a pitcher of orange juice. It's almost quiet for a minute, except for Robert and Allison squabbling over who gets the biggest cookie. Robert wins and laughs in his sister's face. Allison yells and knocks her juice flying.

"Oh, Lisa, don't be too hard on her," Blythe says, when Cuddy scolds them both and Wilson runs for a napkin. "She's only four."

"Almost five," Cuddy mutters, wiping Allison's sticky fingers. It's practically a contradiction, and House grins. Cuddy gives a despairing sigh when Allison climbs into her grandma's lap and snuggles in close, sticking her thumb in her mouth.

"So," Blythe says brightly, when they've all fiddled long enough with napkins and the wet patch on the carpet. "Are we going to meet, ah--"

"Eric," Wilson supplies, carefully not looking at House.

"Yes. Eric."

John grumbles a bit into his juice glass, but doesn't say anything audible.

"No," House says.

"Greg--"

"_No_," he snaps. John gives him a look, telling him he's behaving like a child, but there's no fucking way he's going to tell his father about Foreman. He bites back the words _he was hot and I was horny_, because it may have started as a one-night stand but that's not what it became, and his father doesn't deserve to know.

Blythe sighs--one more step up on the guilt trip--and rocks Allison. "You do have a birth plan, don't you?"

"The Caesarian has been scheduled," Wilson says, measuring out his words.

"I want an epidural," House says, overriding him. He hasn't said much about the birth yet, leaving the details up to Wilson, but now that his father's in the room, he's suddenly feeling like he wants to share. His parents are already wincing.

Wilson raises his eyebrows. "I think Skorenki wants you out cold for the whole procedure."

"She's barely out of her residency," House says. Well, ten years out. She's still not as experienced as he'd like. "I want an epidural and a mirror. And an internist on-call; Skorenki probably expects me to have a uterus."

Wilson gives a pained sigh. "Because she'll do so well with you badgering her from the moment she touches a scalpel," he says. "And she's a specialist in this area, House. It wasn't easy to find her."

"Yeah, right. I bet she was just drooling to get this case. It's not exactly a specialty with a lot of play." House glares around the entire family circle. "I'm not going under while they chop me open. Once was enough for that."

This time it's Cuddy's turn to wince. House feels a wavering moment of guilt, but then, with Princeton-Plainsboro's track record, he'd probably end up with a cholecystectomy rather than a baby. He'd insist on Princeton General instead, but there's no one there he wants to run into accidentally on the big day.

"Fine," Wilson says snippily. "That's the plan," he adds to Blythe, in the same bright tone that she'd used to ask about it, and then he turns to John and asks about the weather, or his local sports team, or something else suitably inane. House meets Cuddy's eyes over Robert's head. Sometimes, even though there are seven years and a lot of rivalry between them, they can read each other's minds: she's thinking, _he's sleeping on the couch for a year_, and he's thinking right back, _I'll prank him every night while he does_.

It's nice how family can come together like this.

*

"I'm not going _anywhere_," House announces later, when Wilson tries to get him to shift his ass to go out to dinner. With his parents. To a place that requires _ties_.

"Cuddy's going," Wilson points out, pulling on his jacket and brushing at what might be the legacy of a vomit stain from Robert's better-left-forgotten seventh birthday party. "You could mock me behind your menus."

"Cuddy was stupid enough to get herself legally bound to you," House says. "And we don't need to hide when we mock you. In fact, I think it's penciled in on her calendar. At least an hour a week."

Wilson stops tying his tie long enough to look up at the ceiling and roll his eyes. "We're taking Allison and Robert to their babysitter's," he said.

"Mom will be so proud of your parenting."

"I think they understand that children don't need to be with their parents twenty-four hours a day," Wilson says.

"Try that line on Cuddy," House says, twirling his cane (finally reacquired) between his fingers. "Let me watch when you do."

"Your dad doesn't disapprove of everything you do," Wilson tries next.

House isn't touching that one, not even at arm's length and with his cane. Even Wilson doesn't get to throw around what his dad does and doesn't disapprove of. Right now the list is pretty fucking long. And even Wilson doesn't get it. _His_ family still thinks he's the golden boy: straight, doctor, married, two kids, picket fence. House makes a note to bring up Wilson's ex-wife the next time his parents are in town, to see how well they're doing at forgetting her and blaming her for his cheating.

"He seemed better," Wilson insists. "After we talked it through."

"I'm not going," House repeats. He just wants to lie down and suffer through the backache, which has redoubled since their little family _chat_ and is spiking harder as time goes on. The throbbing, sharp-hot waves, he can deal with--he dealt with it for five years, until the ketamine, and his pain threshold is a lot higher because of it. Knowing it'll be over in ten days (nine days and fifteen hours, now) makes it easier to dismiss.

"House. I'm sorry I invited them."

"No, you're not."

Wilson sighs. "I'm taking them out for dinner," he says. "With Cuddy. For several hours."

House can't help a breath of a laugh at that. "You'll learn your lesson yet," he says.

"Maybe," Wilson says, with a tired grin. "Your cell phone's on the coffee table. Call me if you're feeling merciful, and we'll get out of it. They're staying at a hotel."

"Thank God for that," House mutters, and Wilson laughs before he goes.

*

House microwaves his dinner, grabbing his back in one hand and gritting his teeth during the one-minute reheat cycle. He retreats to the couch where he's been spending way too much time, ever since Wilson decided he'd probably die in his sleep if he stayed out at the guesthouse during the day. House didn't argue, since Wilson's TV is bigger, but somehow it's different when the whole place is dark and silent.

The spaghetti and sauce don't sit right. Indigestion rolls through his stomach, and just when he thinks it's over, his muscles clench again. He can't quite breathe right, and he ends up gasping and curling into as much of a ball as he can manage until it passes.

The third time, he's looking at the clock. It's eight minutes after the last time, and almost sixteen exactly since the time before that.

Oh, _fuck_.

House gropes for the phone. He flips it open and hesitates with his thumb over one on the speed dial. Wilson and Cuddy are both with his parents. If he calls them, there's no way his mother won't want to come to the hospital. She'll insist, and that means his father will be there too. That is not going to happen.

He hesitates over 911 even longer, because this is the perfect medical definition of an emergency: with nowhere to go, the fetus will be in distress _very_ quickly. But that'll mean overrunning the house with completely clueless paramedics who have never in their lives dealt with this situation, and will subject him to a battery of questions, not to mention that they'll probably think he's crazy. He doesn't have the number for Skorenki's service, if she's even on call.

The next pain rolls through him before he can even think about how to breathe properly. He drops the phone and says every curse in every language he's ever learned. It seems to last even longer, now that he knows what it is, and he's sweaty and exhausted when it passes.

House grabs the phone again. He's not going to make it through another contraction without knowing someone is coming. He presses speed dial three before he can think about it.

"You better fucking answer," he says.

On the third ring, Foreman does. "What?"

"I'm in labour," House says. "Contractions every, oh, seven minutes." His heart's beating faster than it should, and the baby's heartbeat is probably climbing to dangerous levels.

Foreman's quiet for a second. Angry silence, House decides. _Moron_. "And you decided to call me."

"And you're taking the time to state the obvious," House snaps. "Get over here right now."

"House--"

House squeezes his eyes shut. There's another contraction coming on. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ "I need you," he says; it comes out on a gasp.

Foreman takes a breath. House hears his hesitation like it's just one more part of the pain rushing over him. And then, finally, he says: "I'm on my way."


	14. Chapter 14

Foreman doesn't remember a single second between the moment when he hung up on House and the moment he sprints across Wilson and Cuddy's lawn. The guesthouse is dark and Wilson's emails have kept him up-to-date whether he wanted to be or not, so he races for the front door and yanks it open. He gropes for the lights and barks his shin on a heavy table ugly enough to be an antique. When he makes it to the living room, he doesn't see House at first. His heart slams into overdrive before he realizes that House is lying on his back on the floor. He's gained more weight now than Foreman imagined he would, even since the last time he saw him. He's wearing headphones, but Foreman can still hear the blast of screaming rock from across the room. He's clutching one hand white-knuckled on his stomach and panting through a contraction, face screwed up in concentration and pain.

Foreman kneels next to him and pulls the headphones off his ears. "What the hell are you doing?"

House grimaces, his eyes still screwed shut. "You're supposed to support my choice of soothing relaxation music," he says. "Book said so."

"I hate your music." As evidence, Foreman snaps off the stereo. Without the music, the whole place is too quiet, hardly recognizable. He wonders where Cuddy and Wilson are, and why House didn't call _them_. Wilson's been the one monitoring his medical condition, and ferrying him to all his appointments, and scheduling the obstetrician. Why the hell House wouldn't want him now, he has no idea. Then he stops and shakes his head as House's words penetrate. "Wait, you actually read a book on childbirth?"

House sucks in a gulp of air like there isn't enough oxygen in the room, and then finally opens his eyes. He's dripping in sweat, his hair damp and glued to his temples in weird swirls. "Wilson stopped bringing me the Enquirer after they printed my article," he says, his forehead wrinkling.

"You wrote to the _National Enquirer_?" Foreman demands. House looks up at him blankly, like he's too exhausted to be anything but innocent. Foreman realizes he hasn't even _seen_ House in four months, and it's almost a shock to meet his eyes after that long. "Never mind. Of course you did."

"They loved it. 'm still getting mail. Great picture of you." House grunts, rolling to his left side. "Let's go. Five minutes apart."

Foreman gets an arm under him and grips his elbow, trying to haul him up with the least amount of jostling. When House is finally standing, leaning on him heavily, Foreman looks around for his cane or for the wheelchair. He sees the cane leaning against the couch and grabs it without stepping away from House's side. He left his car running at the curb. The only bright side he can see to living in the suburbs is that he can expect it to still be there when they get out of the house. "Why the hell did you call me?" he asks quietly, as they maneuver towards the door.

He doesn't really expect House to answer. House is already letting him wrap an arm around him and help him walk--the indignity of telling the truth on top of that is probably too much for him.

But House turns it around on him immediately. "Why did you come? If you don't watch out, someone might think you still care."

"I wasn't the one who stopped caring in the first place," Foreman snaps back, without a thought to what he's admitting.

"You--" House nearly collapses against him, and a groan forces its way between his gritted teeth. He grabs Foreman's wrist and squeezes so hard that it's like he's trying to fuse Foreman's carpals into diamonds. "_Fuck_."

"Almost there," Foreman says, letting the argument slide. Five steps, but it's an eternity with House barely able to move. Foreman helps him in and buckles his seatbelt for him, and then jumps into the driver's seat, slamming the door. He throws out everything resembling common sense about driving in New Jersey and slams his foot down on the gas.

House tilts his head back against the headrest and pants, his throat long and exposed, his stubble longer than usual and dark with sweat. "You're going to get us pulled over for DWB."

"Should've called an ambulance, then," Foreman says, glaring at the road and nearly cracking his knuckles from how tightly he's gripping the steering wheel. Sixty miles an hour, and he has never hated this ridiculous drive from the edge of town more than tonight. House doesn't say anything, which is more than enough proof that this is for real.

They make it to the hospital in record time, and miracle of miracles, without being pulled over by any cops with an agenda. Foreman jerks the car to a stop right outside the emergency entrance. "I'll have them page Dr. Skorenki," he says, but House leans across the gearshift and grabs his wrist again. He's between contractions, so Foreman has no idea what he wants. Right now, he's not going to believe anything serious House has to say.

"Don't come in with me," House says.

Foreman stares at him, all the adrenaline and panic and...excitement, yeah, that was there too, the hope that maybe this meant something...it all shrivels into disbelieving anger. So he's not wanted after all.

House doesn't notice. "Go 'round through the clinic," he says. "Down to Radiology. Find Rhonda, tell her you're the new neuro-oncology fellow, ask her for the fMRI results for Mr. Pinkerman that Dr. Wilson ordered--"

"If this is some kind of fucking joke--"

"_Then_ tell her you've heard about the pool," House says. "Buy in for twenty bucks. Money on the surgery scheduled for tomorrow, eleven-thirty AM."

"_What_ pool?" Foreman asks. House stares at him like he's just missed the white elephant in the room. Foreman tugs his hand free and shuts the car off. "Well, it sure as hell isn't waiting until tomorrow."

House rolls his eyes. "Idiot. You'll still be the closest. We'll start a fucking college fund for the kid, I don't care, but Brenda Previn is _not_ going to walk away with a two thousand dollar pot for guessing early."

"Nobody in Radiology is going to believe that I'm new," Foreman says. This is the most stupid delay of medical care that he's ever seen, and he worked in a public county ER as an intern. He gets out of the car and opens House's door for him, calling over the nearest orderly with a wheelchair.

When the orderly (looking vaguely terrorized just by being in Dr. House's presence, and green around the gills to be put in charge of him while he's in labour) has him in the chair, House looks over his shoulder and waves Foreman off. "Use your pretty eyes," he says, with a more salacious grin than anyone in his position should ever be capable of. "Trust me. Those'll get you anywhere."

*

It takes fifteen minutes of sweet talk about the placement of Mr. Pinkerman's tumour before Foreman can--casually, if his _extreme fucking annoyance_ counts as casual--bring up the pool and shove a hasty twenty dollar bill into Rhonda's hand to buy a two-hour slot. He double-checks her entry in the dog-eared notebook she carries. Right there, in black-and-white (and, as promised, Brenda Previn's name in the next-closest slot--Foreman vaguely remembers the hawk-eyed nurse who watched his every movement when he visited House), the entire birth feels so immediate that by the time Foreman gets out of the basement, he's nearly running.

"Gregory House," he tells the charge nurse, leaning over the admit desk and trying to read her admission records upside down.

"I'm afraid I can't give out that information except to family," the nurse says.

"I _am_\--" Foreman clenches his jaw before letting the rest of that thought escape. Maybe House doesn't want him in the OR; there's really no better reason that he sent Foreman on that stupid fucking goose chase two minutes before he was admitted. He was approaching second stage labour as they arrived at the hospital, and what should have been a well-coordinated, scheduled operation is rapidly becoming an emergency.

He paces in the waiting room, feeling like the most stereotypical useless father ever--not that that's his fault; this is all House's doing, making him look at himself and ask uncomfortable questions that he was doing _just fine_ without answering--but he knows hospitals at least as well as the nurse does, and the minute her back is turned he heads past the desk.

An orderly bows to his authority, even though he's wearing crumpled, thrown-on clothes instead of a tie and lab coat. But "I'm Dr. Foreman. I got a page," and a ferocious scowl gets him what he wants: Skorenki's OR schedule and a room number.

Foreman is _not_ going to let House do this to him. Whether he's wanted or not, he won't let House kick him out as if he hasn't been a part of this since the beginning. He's sick of being ignored. He walked out once, but his kid is being born, and he's not going to leave. House is just going to have to deal with it.

He waylays a scrub nurse outside the OR, and this time he hesitates half a second. It's the first time he'll be saying this to a stranger; it's the first time, maybe, that it's really true. "I'm with House," he says. "I'm the father."

The nurse, to her credit, doesn't bat an eye. She shows him where he can put on a cap and gown, and then she shows him into the OR.

House is already draped in a cloth that hides the surgical field from his view, and of course he's complaining like he's been deprived of each one of his constitutional rights. Foreman moves forward until he's edging into House's view, and House clamps his mouth shut.

"Dr. Foreman would like to observe," Skorenki says, after the nurse has spoken to her. She's a short woman, about Foreman's age, and she looks competent: at least, House's yelling hasn't gotten to her, and that has to be a point in her favour. "Is that all right?"

House doesn't say anything, but he stares at Foreman with a half-hearted sneer, as if he didn't expect him to track him down. Foreman raises an eyebrow at him. _Good luck kicking me out while you're under anesthetic,_ he thinks.

"Dr. House?" Skorenki asks.

"Yeah," House says, "whatever," but when Foreman steps forward and rests his hand on the bed next to him, House nudges his own hand closer, until their fingers overlap. "Tell me if she screws up," he says, projecting for Skorenki's benefit.

Foreman sighs and gives Skorenki an apologetic tilt of his head. She rolls her eyes and tightens her grip on the scalpel.

"Shut up if you want to live, House," Foreman says. When Skorenki begins, he grabs House's hand in earnest, staring pointedly over the curtain. "She's starting with a midline incision..."

*

The birth itself only takes a few minutes. Skorenki lifts the baby gently, supporting the head with careful fingers. "It's a boy," she says. "Congratulations."

The nurse clears the mucous from his nose and then his mouth, and then she places him on his stomach on House's chest, so that they're looking into each other's eyes. Hesitantly at first, House reaches out, and he cups the baby's back and supports his head in one broad, strong hand. He stares into the baby's face. Foreman can almost see him thinking, as if the baby is an astonishing puzzle.

A moment later, the nurse takes the baby back, and starts assessing his Apgar. With a hitching, shocked breath, the baby lets out a thin cry. A moment later, he's screaming in earnest, his still-damp skin flushed red with indignation, and all limbs waving tremulously in the sudden chill. Foreman guesses he's at an eight or a nine; he's moving, breathing, _crying_, and responding reflexively when she strokes the bottom of his foot.

Foreman grins; he can't help himself. He's smiling so broadly that his cheeks hurt, and he can feel each individual heartbeat in his chest. He crushes House's hand--revenge for his own abused wrist--and almost laughs. When he looks down, though, House has turned his head away. He looks deeply, distantly tired, and the little dint between his eyebrows means that he's lost his footing. He has no idea what to do next, so he's shutting down, raising the defenses, blocking it all out. Foreman starts to frown, but just then the nurse asks him, "Would you like to cut the cord?"

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I would." Skorenki is already at work again; this is the most difficult part of the operation, since it's far more complicated than repairing a uterus and suturing the incision. It will take her nearly an hour longer before she can start to close. Foreman follows the nurse, and stares down at his son.

He's so incredibly small. He's wailing, his face crumpled into a tiny, ridiculous version of House's scowl, his fists waving. Foreman pulls on a pair of gloves and takes the scissors, placing them where the nurse indicates on the thick whitish-grey umbilical. It's almost like being in surgery himself, except that this is his _child_, and it feels vastly, amazingly different. Foreman wants to hold him, to feel him in his arms, to warm him and soothe him until he grows still and quiet and sleepy.

The nurse takes him again, though, bustling and efficient. Soon he's been weighed and measured and diapered and bundled back into a sleeper and a press of blankets. "He's five pounds, twelve ounces," she says, "and twenty inches long."

And she places him in Foreman's arms.

He can barely take a breath. The baby fits perfectly in the crook of his elbow, a fragile weight. He's still crying, but it's plaintive and trailing away into shuddering gasps. When the nurse hands Foreman a warm bottle, he takes it and touches the nipple to the baby's lips. He latches on after a few tries, and then gives three or four vigorous sucks before it falls from his mouth. Foreman tries again, until the baby manages to find the nipple. Within moments, he's nearly asleep, a thin milky trail drooling from the corner of his mouth.

"You can hold him for a while, now," the nurse tells him, "while Dr. Skorenki finishes."

"Can I..." Foreman doesn't even know what he wants to ask. He laughs, then, hardly more than a chuckle, and glances over at House, who seems to have dozed off as well...or at least, his eyes are determinedly closed.

"I'll show you to the recovery room," the nurse says. "We'll be bringing Dr. House there as soon as possible."

Foreman can't even form words. "Thank you," he manages, to the nurse--but she only smiles the efficient smile of nurses everywhere, and he knows she's not who he meant.

*

By the time Cuddy arrives, Foreman is sitting in a rocking chair, hunched over the baby's bassinet, with his pinky finger squeezed tightly in his son's fist. 'Baby Boy House-Foreman', the nametag reads. There is a hospital bracelet around his ankle, and a soft blue cap on his head.

"Oh, my God," Cuddy breathes, tiptoeing across the room and resting one hand on the side of the cradle. "He's so beautiful."

Foreman grins--in fact, he's not sure he's ever really stopped. "Yeah," he says, and shakes his head. He can't believe he's being this sentimental, but he doesn't care.

"House is still in surgery?"

"Yeah. They should be finished soon." There's so much more he could add to that--what it felt like to watch the operation; how House looked with the baby draped over his chest, when their eyes met; how House turned away at the end. But it's too new, too raw, and he hardly knows Cuddy at all, not really. She's House's little sister, she's Wilson's wife, she's the Dean of Medicine at an important teaching hospital.

She's looking at him like she understands. "Wilson panicked when we got home," she says. "My parents are visiting..."

"Whose idea was that?" Foreman says. From what House _hasn't_ said about his parents, he knows all he needs to about them.

Cuddy tilts her head at the door, towards the waiting room. Answer enough. "I thought House would phone you," she says, and she's watching him very carefully.

Foreman wants to ask _why_\--but her guess is as good as his. House needed him, for five minutes in his life.

On the other hand, House needed _him_.

"I'm glad he did," Cuddy says, still softly, but with an underlying steel.

Foreman nods. "Yeah," he says. "So am I."

*

Cuddy leaves after brushing a fingertip along the baby's cheek, and kissing his forehead, to calm the masses; Foreman stays. He couldn't make himself leave if he wanted to. Staying awake is like swimming through air, but at the same time it's impossible to close his eyes. He feels like he's survived a forty-hour shift, but it's only approaching midnight when an orderly wheels House's bed into the recovery room.

His eyes are closed, but Foreman knows he's awake from his frown of pain.

"Hey," he says. He's feeling generous. House hasn't insulted him in at least three hours, and he's happy enough to forgive a hell of a lot right now.

House grunts and squeezes his eyes tighter. Foreman waits for the orderly to leave, and then he says, "I'm not going to let you freak out."

House's grimace deepens. "Did _you_ just have major abdominal surgery?" he says. "Because everyone here who did needs to get their beauty rest."

"You hated it when I felt the baby move," Foreman says. "You thought you could go back in time, and it was _stupid_, House, because it didn't solve anything."

"Think they might up the morphine if I told them the pain _hasn't stopped yet_?" House asks the ceiling rhetorically.

Foreman shakes his head. "I'm not leaving," he says, like it's a threat instead of a promise. He lifts the baby tenderly and lays the bundle of swaddling on the bed next to House, until he's is cradled next to House's shoulder.

"I'm not going to let you freak out," Foreman repeats, and he watches for the moment when House's shoulders relax and he finally _sees_ the baby, when he _realizes_. Maybe it won't happen at all.

But then the baby yawns--his first yawn--and his mouth opens in a perfect teardrop _oh_. The red flush from his first screaming match has faded, and his skin is a warm brown. The shape of his head is just far enough from the normal newborn-round to show that he'll have House's face and jaw; there's a cleft in his chin. The faint fuzz of his hair is black and curly.

His eyes are open, and incredibly dark. He stares up at them in wonderment, as if he recognizes the rise and fall of their voices, and House's heartbeat near his ear.

House's eyebrows lower and he blinks slowly, his eyelashes brushing against his cheeks. "Impatient little bastard," he says. His voice is husky and low, and the gentlest Foreman has ever heard him. "Had to have your own way. Didn't stop to think if it was _safe_. It had to be now, now, now." He turns his head slightly on the pillow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he gazes up at Foreman with a hint of tired humour in his eyes. "Just like your daddy," he says.

Foreman wants to...he doesn't even know. Kill House, except the urge to throttle him has been subsumed into a huge, overwhelming warmth that fills his whole chest and _squeezes_, until he's caught halfway between crying and laughing. "Jackass," he says.

"Moron," House returns, with something like affection.

A minute passes. House's eyes begin to droop closed. His breathing slows. The lines on his forehead ease away. The baby is already asleep.

"I'll take him," Foreman says, pushing himself to his feet and reaching for the baby.

"Mmmn," House says, frowning without opening his eyes. He lifts one hand and catches a finger in Foreman's wrist cuff. "Stay," he says, or at least, that's what the syllable sounds like.

Foreman sighs, but he sits down again. House's face relaxes by increments, until, at last, his mouth falls open in exactly the same shape as the baby's. They both let out a breath like a tiny snoring sigh. The baby's lips move in an echo of sucking. House gives one last short hum from the back of his throat.

And Foreman sits beside them, and watches his son and his son's father sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

"Abelard."

"No."

"Uzziah."

"No."

"Csaba."

"What? And no."

"Sacherevell--that means 'leap of a young goat'."

"Would you stop trying to name our baby with something you googled!"

House gives the baby an exaggerated pout. "Tewodros is totally on my side."

Foreman rolls his eyes so hard he's probably at risk of straining a ciliary muscle. House's recovery from surgery must be going smoothly, because two days later, he's already back to his insufferable self. Still, it's impossible to get angry with him while he's holding the baby. He's making a series of ever-more ridiculous faces at him, and coaxing him to take a bottle. The baby (Aaron, Foreman thinks; Lamar, Tyler, Sean) is giving equally ridiculous faces back. It's probably gas, and House must know that, but he seems to be taking it as proof of his own success as an entertainer. Sometimes, when the baby latches on to the nipple and suckles, one fist resting against the bottle's side, eyes wide and amazed, House slips up and smiles. He doesn't notice he's doing it, but whatever grimace he's making fades away, and his expression softens, his eyes shining, his lips barely curved. Foreman keeps catching him at it, and he grins to himself and doesn't say a word.

There's a knock on the door. Foreman looks over his shoulder. It's Wilson, carrying a bouquet of balloons. They say things like _Congratulations!_ and _It's A Boy!_, a collection of well-wishes and self-evident truisms that House will probably take a pin to if given half a chance. "Hey," he says, and sheepishly lets go of the string so that the balloons float up to the ceiling, as if he's already discounting responsibility for buying anything for House that's not a video game.

House smirks, setting the bottle on the stand of drawers beside the bed. "Buying stock in mylar, Wilson?"

"Shut up," Wilson says, "or you don't get your real present." He holds up a fast food bag, and House's eyes widen.

"Gimme."

"I'm really hoping you teach your son better than that."

"He can't even recognize faces yet, let alone manners," House says. "Gimme."

Wilson hands over the bag, taking the opportunity to lean closer and smile at the baby and chuck him under the chin.

"One _isn't he adorable_ from you and you're getting kicked out," House mumbles, already biting into a fish taco. He elbows Wilson in the chest and waves him back, out of the way of the hot sauce. "Foreman, take the lump."

They've already worked out the mechanics of "Here," and "Watch his head, you're going to snap his neck," and a glare that means House regrets handing the baby over in the first place but is too proud to ask for him back. It's mostly House being protective, and Foreman arguing that he had seven cousins younger than him growing up, and House speculating on how many of them he dropped on their heads and whether that would explain their later criminal records, and Foreman trying to glare at him and failing because by then he's holding the baby. The process has gotten smooth enough that they don't even need to snipe at each other anymore; that's all understood. Foreman lifts the baby against his chest, getting a cotton sheet over his shoulder (he learned his lesson about spit-up two shirts ago), and rubs his back.

Wilson shakes his head a bit and grins at them bemusedly. House is concentrating on stuffing himself with Mexican food and doesn't notice. Wilson half-opens his mouth to say something, and Foreman tries to warn him off by widening his eyes meaningfully. They haven't worked out a system of signals, though, and Wilson probably thinks he's still the undisputed champion when it comes to dealing with House.

"You're doing really well with him," he says. He gives Foreman a bit of a puppy-dog look, like he's hoping Foreman will offer to let him hold the baby. Foreman sighs--he's burped, and he's almost asleep again, his head a warm weight against Foreman's shoulder--but he gives in and lets Wilson take him. Wilson takes him confidently, with all those 'I've had two kids' tricks that make him look like the perfect parent. He coos in baby-talk, rocking him gently. "Yeah, your dad's doing great, right? Look at you. Not a care in the world..."

House tosses the end of his taco onto the wrapper and frowns uneasily, watching him. Foreman crosses his arms and leans against the wall. This is exactly what he was afraid of. Yeah, House was doing fine, but the point was, nobody--and certainly not Foreman--was telling him so. That's the only way he's going to accept this--if nobody tries to push him into realizing that he already has.

Wilson looks up briefly, still smiling warmly. "What are you going to call him?"

"Hilderinc," House says shortly.

"Oh, and I was going to suggest Xicohtencatl," Wilson asks dryly. "Why stick with just obscure when you can have unpronounceable and unspellable, too?"

House's lips twist into a half-smile. "Foreman's repressing my creativity."

Foreman snorts. He's _not_ going to let House get to him over this. He's got power of veto, and he's not going to hang Lumumba or Erasto on his son just because House is afraid of making a real decision. Yesterday, House bunched all the hospital paperwork he was supposed to fill out into a stack and pushed it at Foreman, telling him to get Cuddy or someone to fill it in--he doesn't care who, as long as it gets done. Jammed into the middle of insurance and medical history forms, there was one to register for a birth certificate, with the given name carefully left blank. There's no way House doesn't know it was there. Foreman knows it's far more than a hint. House trusts him.

That's probably the scariest thing he's had to deal with since all this began.

Wilson places the baby back in his bassinet, carefully folding the blanket over him, and takes the chair next to House's bed. House absently offers him the bag of chips that came with the take-out. Wilson opens the bag, takes a handful, and passes it back, the bag crinkling between them. They aren't even looking at each other, but they seem perfectly at ease even without a word. Foreman's heard (more than enough) from Cuddy about how they steal lunch breaks like this in comatose patients' rooms, watching bad soaps and plotting how best to prank the nurses.

After a moment in silence, though, House says, "Would you just spit it out already?"

Foreman raises his eyebrows at Wilson, who's suddenly distinctly uncomfortable. "Your parents are here," he says.

"Tell them I died in childbirth."

Wilson sighs. "They'd like to see their grandson."

House picks up the remote and pointedly turns on the TV.

"I think they might notice that you're still alive," Wilson says. "The hospital hasn't sponsored a 'How I Hated Greg House' open mic night yet."

The soft-voiced man on the TV explains how to paint a happy little spruce tree just so in the foreground of a landscape. House pretends to be riveted.

"They're only staying three more days," Wilson says, without much hope.

House is being discharged in two. Cuddy might take pity on him and say he needs to stay until their parents are out of the state, but maybe--maybe this is an opportunity instead.

Foreman straightens up. "I'll go," he says.

*

One peek into the waiting room and Foreman realizes the situation is more serious than he'd ever expected. Yesterday morning, early, when the nurses brought the baby to him for his first feeding, when House was still snoring--and somehow even when he's unconscious he can ditch responsibility in the most obnoxious ways--Foreman found himself reaching for the phone. Something about the way his son looked, like there was an echo of his parents there, and he imagined what his mom might say if only she could recognize what this meant to him.

He never expected his father to actually show.

Foreman ducks out of view and leans back against the wall, looking up to the ceiling. He was prepared for one set of parents, but his dad is sitting next to an older man who looks like a graying, heavyset version of House, and a woman with blue eyes that could be Cuddy's. He has no idea what--if anything--Wilson has told the Houses about him, and whether they'd recognize him. Walking into the waiting room without a plan, though, can't be a good idea.

"Hiding?"

Foreman nearly jumps out of his skin. It's Cuddy, who snuck up on him incredibly quietly--she shares that with House; it doesn't matter how much noise they should objectively make, they can be silent when they want to be. She peers around his shoulder at the waiting room. "Yeah," he admits. "You?"

"I shouldn't have to do this," she says. "They're my _parents_. I just imagine what it would feel like if Allison does this to me some day--if I make her feel this way." She lets out a disgusted breath. "Come on," she says. "There's a back way to my office."

Foreman takes one last glance over his shoulder and grimaces at himself. But Cuddy's right. This is a tactical delay.

He follows her--he supposes they're sneaking, which makes him feel like a naughty kid, so he tries to walk as normally as possible. When they're in her office, Cuddy drops down on the couch and kicks off her heels, throwing up one arm in a helpless, 'I can't believe I'm doing this' gesture. Foreman thinks of House again, of all his histrionic pouting, and he can't stop his grin.

"My dad's out there," he says. It feels like a big admission, but he doesn't mind, so much, with Cuddy. Not after she was there when the baby was born. She was happy for him, but she didn't push it. Left him alone with the moment. He wonders if she ever had that sense of quiet when her own children were born, what with Wilson's insistent happiness bubbling over all around her. Maybe while he was crashed out on the guest chair, sleeping, still clutching a gift-shop teddy bear in one hand. Foreman chuckles a bit at the image.

"Let me guess," Cuddy says. "You haven't told him about House."

Foreman snorts. "He thought I was with a woman at first," he says. He shakes his head. "He knows," he adds. "He'd just rather he didn't."

Cuddy raises her eyebrows. "It sounds like our fathers would get along."

"Don't even think it," Foreman says. He wants his dad to know his grandson, but the very idea of a big family gathering is the biggest disaster he can think of. "Your parents must have hated it when House came out."

"I didn't find out until later," Cuddy says. She frowns slightly. "I don't think he told them, but Mom knew, at least, so they both must have figured out. I remember House would do anything to escape Dad. The summer before he left for college, he disappeared for three months."

Foreman tenses up a bit. His dad hadn't exactly enjoyed that conversation, either, but he hadn't kicked him out. House would insist on rebelling as much as possible, though. "Lots of kids go on vacations--"

"With his only friend who had a car," Cuddy says. "Dylan Crandall."

"House had a friend?" Foreman asks. Other than Wilson--and, he supposes, himself--he hasn't noticed that House has any talent for getting along with other human beings. Even with the people he might possibly care for, his default setting is as loud as possible and as stubborn as hell.

Cuddy tilts her head and stares at him meaningfully.

Foreman gets it. "Oh," he says, and tries to imagine a teenage House losing himself for a summer with his boyfriend and a car. No wonder John House hadn't been impressed.

"You could talk Dylan into anything," Cuddy says. She smiles for an instant, remembering. "I was ten, and he'd play with me for hours...whenever he and House weren't getting high or pretending that their 'band' was going to hit it big." She shakes her head. "House convinced him to go to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. In June."

Foreman rolls his eyes. Gullibility and stupidity were pretty high up on House's list of things to hate about humanity. "And House _liked_ him?"

Cuddy sighs and settles back into the couch. "I think he liked the idea that someone wouldn't automatically think the worst. He used Dylan, but he couldn't make him cynical. I think he respected that."

That was convoluted enough to make sense. It does nothing to solve the immediate problem, though. Foreman slumps against the wall. "House won't agree to see them." He's not sure he even wants his dad to _meet_ House. It shouldn't matter.

But it does.

"I'll handle it," Cuddy says.

Foreman glances over at her. He's occasionally wondered how she became Dean of Medicine so young, especially with House overshadowing her during her entire professional life, but if he ever had any doubts, this moment, right now, would have convinced him otherwise. She looks as dangerous as a queen, dark and determined.

Still: "How?" he asks.

"This is _my_ hospital," Cuddy says, and Foreman knows that's all the answer any of them will ever need.

*

Cuddy slides open the door of House's private room and slides it shut again after her with a distinct and ominous clicking sound. House glances at Wilson. Wilson glances at House. They both know that this is one of those times when shutting up is the only acceptable strategy.

"You _are_ going to see them," Cuddy says.

"Or what?" House asks, jutting out his chin. He meant it to sound defiant, but it comes out like the whiniest comeback in the world.

"Or I will have you discharged _right now_ and invite them over for brunch," Cuddy says, her eyes flashing. "Five minutes now, or three days at home."

"Fine," House says. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and he doesn't have much room to negotiate. "Then you're not getting rid of me until they're gone." He'll endure the hospital if he has to, even though the food sucks (despite what Wilson can sneak in) and the cable package is worse. Anything except tea and cakes with Blythe and Mrs. Winkirk (who, he imagines, Wilson plans to invite over the moment they step foot at home).

"Fine," Cuddy snaps right back, and stalks out of the room.

"Damn," House says. "I could've pushed for more. Why didn't I hold out for a sponge-bath by the nurse of my choice?"

"Because the nurse of your choice is a woman now," Wilson says mildly. "Also, Cuddy would have eviscerated you."

"Hmph," House says, since he's right. Cuddy was certainly getting down with her terrifying dominatrix self. "Keep riding the tiger, Wilson."

"Oh, I will," Wilson says, with a knowing grin that probably only House ever gets to see. Even though this is all Wilson's fault, as long as he's there, House might just get through this alive.

*

"Oh, Greg." Blythe is the first one in the door, coming to his side, while John stands just inside the doorway as if he's standing at parade rest. House smiles and lets her fuss. He doesn't meet John's eyes, but since Blythe is tsking over his pillows, and adjusting the bed for him--he feels the pull on his stitches as she gets him to sit up "for just a moment, Greg,"--he supposes it doesn't matter if his father feels as uncomfortable as he does.

It's not like he meant to get knocked up. And now that it's over...it's not like he entirely hated every second of it either.

"Now, where is our grandson?" Blythe asks. "It certainly took you long enough to see us..."

"Here he is, Mom," Cuddy says, appearing in the doorway. Foreman follows her in, holding the baby. Right behind him is an older, barrel-chested man, who looks sourly suspicious in just the way Foreman gets when House has spent a day calling him and leaving dirty messages. His father, obviously. And people think that _House_ got all the sneaky genes in the family. "Rodney Foreman," Cuddy says brightly, as if she's standing at a podium introducing the donors at a hospital benefit, "I'd like to introduce you to my parents, Blythe and John, my husband, James, and of course, this is my brother, Greg."

It takes a moment, but when realization sets in, the entire room goes dead silent. Cuddy smiles winningly through House's glare of death. Foreman eases through the room, which feels more claustrophobic than any place House has ever been, and leans down to place the baby in his arms. "Trust me," he mutters in House's ear. It probably looks like a kiss, from where their parents are standing. "I couldn't stop her."

"Well," Blythe says. She smiles hesitantly at first, and then she takes Rodney's hand in hers. "It certainly is nice to meet you at last."

Cuddy smiles beatifically. "I thought it would be so much simpler if we all got to know each other at once," she says, a perfect imitation of Blythe.

"Devil woman," House grumbles, low enough that maybe only Foreman hears. He's practically squirming. Cuddy has definitely gotten her revenge for every prank, every pigtail he pulled, every single embarrassment. Maybe he could kill her and Wilson both, and call it a murder-suicide.

If Foreman wants to escape as badly as he does, he's not showing it. Their fathers are standing on either side of the door like an honour guard. Rodney's eyeing John and Blythe like he can't quite believe he walked into the right room, and John is clenching his jaw and breathing through his nose like a bull.

"Well, dear," Blythe says. "Have you decided on a name?"

House's defiant _Parthalan, or maybe Nkrumah_ is on the tip of his tongue, but Foreman beats him to it.

"Yeah," he says. "We're calling him Dylan."

House twists to look up at him--there's no way that's a coincidence--but Foreman is smiling determinedly at Blythe and pretends not to notice. His hand brushes House's shoulder for an instant, and House has no idea what that's supposed to _mean_. Dylan, he thinks, and he realizes it doesn't suck.

John shakes himself out of being a statue and says, "Are you sure--"

Foreman glares, in that stony way of his that would look respectful except that his eyes are wide enough to show the anger he's pushing down. "Dylan House," he says. "Nothing wrong with that, is there?"

Rodney harrumphs as if he might have a problem with it. Probably expected his family's name in there somewhere. Not without a ring, House thinks virtuously, and then vows never ever to make that joke out loud. He has a feeling Foreman might take it seriously, and that.... He's not going to even think about that.

Rodney turns to John, like they're old war buddies, like they've just lifted a beer together in some neighbourhood pub. "Can you believe them?" he asks.

"No thought about consequences," John agrees.

Blythe sighs and shakes her head. "Here, let me hold him," she says, and House lets her take Dylan from his arms. He wakes up and starts snuffling, which quickly works into a wail.

"Well, we should let Greg rest," Cuddy says, raising her voice over Dylan's sobs. Wilson got to his feet and quickly ushers John and Rodney out of the room, and they're just as eager to escape. This must have been Cuddy's master plan from the start: neither of them had a single opportunity to make one cutting remark. Maybe House will let her off the hook. Eventually. After a hell of a lot of babysitting.

Dylan cries insistently, despite Blythe's carefully shushing, and Foreman finally says, "Here, let me take him." Blythe hands him over, only slightly reluctantly, and before she leaves, she says, "He's perfect," and kisses House's cheek.

House looks away. Nothing's perfect. The kid will get colic and scream to be fed and changed five times a night. House's insomnia will get worse than ever, and Foreman will get tight-lipped and furious with him for doing whatever stupid things feel like a good idea at the time; and they're not going to get along, or raise the kid right, just because Dylan manages to be cute enough when he sleeps that they won't decide to smother him.

Nothing's perfect. But watching Foreman whisper to Dylan while he checks his diaper and starts to change him, House thinks: maybe, this once, it won't be a disaster.

*

"Come on, let's go." Foreman's got a diaper bag and House's backpack of necessities (iPod, World Weekly News, stolen lollipops) slung over one shoulder, and he picks up Dylan's infant carrier in the other hand.

House slumps back against the hospital bed. He's finally escaped the hospital gown, and he's dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of jeans with a belt closed to a notch he never thought he'd use again. "You look ridiculous," he says.

"And you look like a hobo," Foreman says, curling one lip disdainfully. "You're shaving when we get home."

"You're not the boss of me," House says. _When we get home_ sounds vaguely like a threat. He expected Wilson to pick him up and Wilson didn't show: he's probably busy laughing heartily at John's jokes and waiting for the moment when he and Blythe finally leave. One more day. House can grit his teeth and get through it. Damn Cuddy for not extending his stay. She's a terrible liar. Bed shortage, his ass.

Foreman checks Dylan's straps and walks out of the room without a response.

House grins and follows him. It feels good to walk. Even the cane feels familiar and welcome in his hands. He's not constantly having to lean back to keep from falling flat on his face, and his stitches have healed enough that it's not a struggle just to take another stp. He kind of likes the part where Foreman carries everything, too.

House gets into the car and starts punching radio buttons. He waits while Foreman attacks Dylan's carrier with a seatbelt, winding it through what seems like a dozen eyelets before he's finally satisfied. When Foreman gets in the driver's side, House has already exhausted the possibilities of fiddling with the mirrors and the vents, and he's staring out the window.

They haven't talked. And as far as House is concerned, that's just fine. But if Foreman's not demanding answers, then that means he's satisfied with something--and from his little chuckle and the way he watches the rearview mirror, keeping an eye on Dylan in the backseat, House has a feeling the thing he's most satisfied with is himself.

House really hates how attractive that is. He wants to throw a monkey wrench into all of Foreman's plans, ruffle him, force him out of his complacent little daydream. The best way he's learned to do that is by grabbing him and kissing him: leave him breathless, maybe, and then stalk off like that's as far as he meant to go; get Foreman stupid and angry and horny, until he's completely unable to maintain any sort of facade.

Except he doesn't know if that's even on the table anymore, and it's his own goddamn fault. Self-sabotage, Wilson called it, and House sneers at the Wilson-voice in his head and tells him, quite firmly, to shut the hell up.

They're not heading home.

House frowns out the window and turns back to Foreman, who's grinning even wider. Waiting for House to catch up with him.

"Where the hell are we going?"

"You hate the suburbs," Foreman says, like that's answer.

"You're kidnapping me."

"You're going voluntarily," Foreman says. "Isn't your family having brunch today?"

"Who's the narc?" House asks. "Wilson?"

"Cuddy," Foreman says. "Baby shower present: she didn't tell Wilson we aren't coming."

House scowls, even though he can't manage much force behind it. He's escaped tea and tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off--it's hard to be properly pissed off. "And you think you've got something better in mind?"

Foreman raises one infuriating eyebrow. "I know I do."

House rolls his eyes. He has an idea of where they're going, and he's proved right a few minutes later when they pull up in front of Foreman's apartment building. Foreman lets him sit and sulk as much as he wants, while he gathers all the bags again and unstraps Dylan's carseat. When he's got everything, though, House follows him. He can call it curiosity and still get out with his dignity intact. Foreman's apartment is like a yuppie museum: full of ugly things that are meant to be placed just so and never touched. House might hate the suburbs, but that doesn't mean he doesn't hate Foreman's pretension just as much.

But when they make it up the elevator and down the hall to Foreman's door, he's not sure. Foreman knows how he feels, and he hasn't lost one jot of his confidence. He hands House Dylan's carrier--he's still asleep, a string of drool-bubbles trailing down his chin--and fishes for his keys, and then opens the door.

House wants to run. It's only his leg, his cane, and his son that keep him glued to Foreman's threshold. If it weren't for them, he'd be fleeing at his best speed.

There's a piano in Foreman's living room that sure as hell wasn't there before.

House glares, but Foreman just takes Dylan back and walks in like there's nothing different at all. All his stupid knickknacks are gone; the place actually looks like a person might live here, instead of admiring it as modern art. House follows him, down the hall, and Foreman turns into the second bedroom, his office--except now it's a nursery, complete with every Wilson-approved gadget in the world. Baby monitors, a change table, a crib, all decked out in racecars (not a single baby duck in sight.)

Foreman lifts Dylan out of his carrier, checks his diaper, lays him on his stomach in the crib, and then turns to House. "Problem?" he asks.

Too many. Or else none at all. "The piano better be a Steinway," House says, tapping his cane against the hardwood floors. "I told you I wanted a pony and a Playstation."

"Too bad," Foreman says. "This is what you get," and he grabs House by his t-shirt and pulls him into a kiss.

Fuck, it's been too long. House frowns in concentration and takes in every moment. He opens his mouth, lets Foreman in, _remembers_ this; the brush of Foreman's goatee, the warm taste of his tongue, the strength in his hands when he grips House's shoulders. He closes his eyes and kisses Foreman back, and won't let himself be completely terrified.

Dylan, in his crib beneath them, wakes up and starts wailing. Foreman lets out a muffled sound and backs off.

"The baby's crying," House says, licking his lips, blinking so that he won't have to meet Foreman's challenging stare. He scowls and clears his throat, then adds, "It's your turn to feed him," and heads out of the room.

He hears Foreman snort, but he doesn't stop. By the time Foreman has warmed a bottle, and has soothed Dylan enough to take it, House is sitting on the piano bench, and he's well into Chopin's _Nocturne in G Minor_, enjoying the lento section, focusing on the rhythm of his left hand.

Foreman sits down on the couch, just in his peripheral vision, watching Dylan as he eats. House lets his hands still on the piano keys. This is too much. Too fucking much. And Foreman expects him to just accept that his life has changed; that this is his life now.

"I hate you," he says quietly, frowning at the keys.

"Yeah, House," Foreman says, not looking up. Dylan is quiet, contented, peaceful in his arms. "I hate you, too."

And House continues to play.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Rolling Stone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/147699) by [Dee_Laundry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry)
  * [Not Quite the Chrome Horse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/147700) by [Dee_Laundry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry)
  * [Dylan Muses on Family](https://archiveofourown.org/works/147701) by [Dee_Laundry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry)




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